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Description

[ GENERAL ]
      Name: Zima (zee-ma) - Belarusian for 'winter'
      Age: Young Adult (3.5 years) | Gender: Amab | they/she

      Height & Weight: 36” | Stocky
      Species: Wild | Domestication Score: Wild (Score 1)
              Build: Large, well-muscled and heavy pawed
              Genotype: a(w)a(w) BB DD EE gg ii k(y)k(y) mm SS tt
              Phenotype: Silver Agouti
              Carries: -

   Voice: Thick and heavy accent. Throaty, low yet smooth voice with a slow cadence - speaking in the region's dialect is a bit difficult for her.
          [Voice Claim: on the hunt]


[ FAMILY & AFFILIATIONS ]
      Faction: Rimehaven

    Profession: Brawler (aspiring Bodyguard)
      Level: 0 (Unseen)
              ↳Bounty Score: 0

      Family: Unknown Dam (deceased) | Unknown Sire (deceased)
    Unknown littermates (deceased)

    Orientation: Lesbian
    Mate: None

    Pups: None

    Current attraction: None
    Past attraction: None

[ PERSONALITY ]
curious / stoic / brutal / impulsive / gauche / paranoid / guileless

      Haunted by the trauma of her past, Zima struggles to create positive first impressions with others, living at the mercy of her instincts and brash nature. Growing up fighting for her life every moment trained Zima to act first and think later - although now that they’re living in more peaceful conditions, it’s not as beneficial. It doesn’t help that the young she-wolf has never been around other wolves before, the social queues and norms that are common knowledge to most are complete mysteries for Zima, her Belarusian dialect stacking on top for difficult and hard-to-bear conversation. Sadly, she is all too aware of her inexperience with other wolves, and whilst eager to improve and learn, her lack of knowledge can leave room for less moral characters to imprint their views, ideals and opinions on the impressionable wolf.

      However, she’s nothing if not a character of pride and purpose, yearning to find a place with a Zima-shaped hole for her to fill and willing to stop at nothing to achieve it. Despite her eagerness, she remains to be highly paranoid of wolves and dogs alike, although much more accepting of the former. She’s a wolf - therefore her place is with other wolves, however her fear and hatred for dog-kind runs deep and strong. If she’s ever to find a fellow wolf amiable with one, all her respect would cease and her hatred would extend onto them.

      Despite her seeming to be a lost soul, Zima’s years in dog rings aren’t forgotten and they remain to be an incredibly formidable fighter, resorting to cutthroat tactics and brutality. When fighting, it’s almost as if a switch is hit, all adrenaline and all instincts, there is no room for thoughts and second-guessing when it’s life or death - and fights are always life or death for Zima. Yet, perhaps surprisingly, the white wolf doesn’t take satisfaction in combat. She’s had more than enough in her short life and in a perfect world would never resort to it again, but she stays a victim to her own trauma, like a leering phantom hovering over her, ready to cloud her vision in a senseless frenzy.

[ BACKSTORY ]

          TW: Death

      Stolen Innocence

      Born in the wilds of Belarus during a winter storm, there’s not much that Zima can recall of her puppyhood. If they focus very hard and delve into the furthest reaches of their memory, the white wolf can just about feel the warmth radiating from their mother’s belly, and just about smell the sweet scent of milk. But those are just memories, or maybe even the workings of her own imagination in an attempt to grasp what they never had. No, for Zima never had a puppyhood to reminisce on.

      At just a few days old, their small milk-filled puppy body was ripped away from the comfort of her birth-den, mother slaughtered for her pelt and littermates disposed of before being able to grow dangerous. But Zima lived, the largest and strongest of the litter, kept for a future to be worse than death.

This would be the beginning of her deadly dance with humans.

      Instead of a soft den, Zima lived in cages that she constantly outgrew, instead of freshly caught prey, they would be tossed scraps and stingy meat, every possible comfort that a pup should have, you can be certain Zima didn’t even get a taste. Their upbringing was curated to evoke nothing but constant fear and aggression, thick, heavy chains weighing down on their neck - a necessary measure to ensure Zima’s submission to their human handlers. But the young wolf was as wild and feral as can be, untameable no matter how much pain they’d endure - and that was precisely what was expected of her.

    First Blood

      It would be during her adolescence where Zima would be put in the ring against another dog for the first time. The teeth, the wild eyes, the blood. With an opponent bigger and older than her, the young she-wolf was certain it’d be her end. Fight or flight would kick in like a blistering storm, and with nowhere to go, the only option was to fight. Fur flew and the sound of snapping jaws echoed through the ring as spectators cheered and roared for the young fighter’s debut. However, it’d end as quick as it began, Zima’s raw strength and power as a wolf would reign supreme. White fur now stained a crimson red, it’d be her first win of many.

      Fight after fight, this would be all they knew and all they’d know, for this was her purpose from the very beginning. Stolen away and raised to fight in illegal dog rings under the ruse of being a wolf-dog, her spotless record of wins and countless fatalities would earn them the nickname “Biely zvier” - White Beast. However, Zima remained feral to the core, soon even the heavy chains and spears struggling to keep The Beast under submission. She’d get passed around from handler to handler, sold to highest bidders or sometimes even given away for fear of becoming too dangerous, eventually taking the white wolf across the Belarus border. From there, it’s hard to distinguish where she was or who kept them, all that is known is that by the end, they reached Moor’s End in Prymere, a smuggler town with a humble scene in the fighting ring and Zima’s next conquest.

      However, fate had something else in store for the wolf who had, until then, lived in utter misfortune. In the ring, it was a fight like any other, just as brutal and fatal as they always are. But there was something amiss, Zima’s keen, freedom hungry eyes noticed weaknesses in the barriers of the ring before the battle and examined her options. A new region likely meant the people of this area are not familiar with Zima’s cutthroat and wild reputation, The White Beast’s ferocity. They do not know that they are a wolf, not dog. They do not know the risk in overlooking barrier strength.

      At the release to battle, Zima rushed at her opponent, shoving them out of the way and slamming into the barrier. Chaos quickly ensued, people began to run and her handlers took spears to hand, but it was already too late. Even the chains still slung over her neck could not weigh down the searing desire for freedom within them.

Zima was out, bounding through the town and into the first sign of wilderness. Stars, she was free!

    Free Yet Still Lost

      Freedom was sweet, and more importantly, big. The outside world was the biggest thing she’d ever seen, the trees, the sky, the rocks, the smells. It’s all so much. The first few days of freedom ended up more overwhelming than the young wolf anticipated, absentmindedly meandering through forests and resting at streams, attempting to adjust to being able to do… whatever they wanted. There was a day where she spent the entirety sleeping under an overhanging rock, another day it was following random scent trails to see where it’d take them. However, though Zima was a master in fighting, she never learnt how to hunt for herself or track food, find shelter or use herbs. If she didn’t learn something soon, freedom would be the death of her.

      As time went on, she’d resort to scavenging, the chains around her neck difficult to remove and weighing her down too much for hunting. Though it wasn’t difficult to scavenge, the meat wasn’t great and sometimes would require defending or scaring off unwanted feeders, but not many dared oppose a beast their size. It was strangely peaceful.

      Memories of the past still torment Zima though, sick, blood-filled visions and night terrors leaving restful nights few and far between. She could still vividly feel the gripping teeth on her flesh, the metallic stench of sanguine, the blood-curdling yowls. Some days it’d feel as if Zima was back there again, in the ring, in pain, despite the birds chirping overhead and grass beneath their toes. It’s so hard to just forget it all.

      It didn’t help when hallucinations of canine figures began appearing in the distance, sending the she-wolf into wild frenzies every time she saw one, jaws crazily snapping at non-existent enemies, instinctually running to fight. After countless panicked surges like those, each one leading to nothing true, Zima slowly started to learn that perhaps those are just visions. Ghosts of her past. Phantoms formed from fears. But one day, no matter how far she travelled, there’d be a figure in the distance.

      Realisation would set in that this was no mere hallucination, and just like the snap of a twig, it’d begin again. Zima rushes the stranger, barrelling over felled trees and rocks to reach the perceived threat for elimination. The figure stood tall and still, pelt black as ebony and eyes a paralysing amber. This was no foe that they’d ever faced - she didn’t know it yet, but they were a wolf, just like her.

      As good as she may have been against dogs, this stranger knocked Zima down with ease, engaging in a one-sided fight where every move she made, they were 3 steps ahead. Eventually, she was pinned to the floor like prey, teeth clamped and pressing tighter around her neck. In that moment, Zima felt the icey grips of fear render her unmoving. Yet the stranger did not deal the killing blow. Slowly, they’d withdraw, those same amber eyes glaring down at her. There was a trickling sense of shame.

“If you’re to be reckless, then have the skills to survive your own negligence. Not many are as kind as I.”

      Kindness. Funnily enough, this would be the first time she’d ever know of it. Life hasn’t ever been kind, and neither has Zima in return, yet this male offered to spare her own life when she never would his. It would turn out his name is Calsimir, a loner, once a part of a pack but since choosing a life of solitude.

      A rocky start, but Zima would end up travelling with him. He pitied her, and while she didn’t share their story with him, they didn’t need to. The ever heavy chains that hung around her neck were all he needed to understand she’d lived a life better left untold. Calsimir helped take them off, and it felt wonderful. Like a butterfly shedding its cocoon, Zima felt a renewed sense of life and freedom, the shackles of their old life no longer weighing them down.

      Calsimir would be the one to teach the inexperienced she-wolf of all that she missed to learn, what it means to be a wolf and live wild, and more importantly, that dogs aren’t to be trusted. It’s here that she’d learn of the differences between the two canids, that the ghosts of her past were the latter, and whilst not all wolves can also be trusted, only within their own kind will they find safety and companionship. It’d take some time to learn, but acceptance for wolf-kind began to seed.

    Hungry Heart

      Amongst Calsimir’s many teachings and stories, there’d be a particular concept that Zima couldn’t seem to shake the idea of, a strange sense of longing tugging at her chest, heart hungry for a home. The older male spoke of pack living, large collectives of wolves that worked in unison to survive and prosper, away from evil hands of man and dog. She’d beg him to take her there, where the packs are, where she could be accepted and find purpose to her barren life. Although Calsimir refused to lead her to his old pack, he pointed the eager youngster towards Oxley - knowing of Rimehaven that could perhaps be what Zima was looking for. Calsimir was to remain a loner, choosing the ways of solitude as the life he wished for himself, however led Zima as far as he could before dipping their heads goodbye to one another. Their friendship was short, but Zima would never forget his generosity, for sparing her life and for teaching them what it’d mean to be a wolf.

There’s a sense of purpose, like the young wolf finally had a direction to walk in. Pack life. And this fabled ‘Rimehaven’ shall be the key to living out the untouched fantasy.

[ IN-GAME HISTORY ]

[30/04/24] - Application Submitted

[02/05/24] - Accepted!

Description

[ GENERAL ]
      Name: Zima (zee-ma) - Belarusian for 'winter'
      Age: Young Adult (3.5 years) | Gender: Amab | they/she

      Height & Weight: 36” | Stocky
      Species: Wild | Domestication Score: Wild (Score 1)
              Build: Large, well-muscled and heavy pawed
              Genotype: a(w)a(w) BB DD EE gg ii k(y)k(y) mm SS tt
              Phenotype: Silver Agouti
              Carries: -

   Voice: Thick and heavy accent. Throaty, low yet smooth voice with a slow cadence - speaking in the region's dialect is a bit difficult for her.
          [Voice Claim: on the hunt]


[ FAMILY & AFFILIATIONS ]
      Faction: Rimehaven

    Profession: Brawler (aspiring Bodyguard)
      Level: 0 (Unseen)
              ↳Bounty Score: 0

      Family: Unknown Dam (deceased) | Unknown Sire (deceased)
    Unknown littermates (deceased)

    Orientation: Lesbian
    Mate: None

    Pups: None

    Current attraction: None
    Past attraction: None

[ PERSONALITY ]
curious / stoic / brutal / impulsive / gauche / paranoid / guileless

      Haunted by the trauma of her past, Zima struggles to create positive first impressions with others, living at the mercy of her instincts and brash nature. Growing up fighting for her life every moment trained Zima to act first and think later - although now that they’re living in more peaceful conditions, it’s not as beneficial. It doesn’t help that the young she-wolf has never been around other wolves before, the social queues and norms that are common knowledge to most are complete mysteries for Zima, her Belarusian dialect stacking on top for difficult and hard-to-bear conversation. Sadly, she is all too aware of her inexperience with other wolves, and whilst eager to improve and learn, her lack of knowledge can leave room for less moral characters to imprint their views, ideals and opinions on the impressionable wolf.

      However, she’s nothing if not a character of pride and purpose, yearning to find a place with a Zima-shaped hole for her to fill and willing to stop at nothing to achieve it. Despite her eagerness, she remains to be highly paranoid of wolves and dogs alike, although much more accepting of the former. She’s a wolf - therefore her place is with other wolves, however her fear and hatred for dog-kind runs deep and strong. If she’s ever to find a fellow wolf amiable with one, all her respect would cease and her hatred would extend onto them.

      Despite her seeming to be a lost soul, Zima’s years in dog rings aren’t forgotten and they remain to be an incredibly formidable fighter, resorting to cutthroat tactics and brutality. When fighting, it’s almost as if a switch is hit, all adrenaline and all instincts, there is no room for thoughts and second-guessing when it’s life or death - and fights are always life or death for Zima. Yet, perhaps surprisingly, the white wolf doesn’t take satisfaction in combat. She’s had more than enough in her short life and in a perfect world would never resort to it again, but she stays a victim to her own trauma, like a leering phantom hovering over her, ready to cloud her vision in a senseless frenzy.

[ BACKSTORY ]

          TW: Death

      Stolen Innocence

      Born in the wilds of Belarus during a winter storm, there’s not much that Zima can recall of her puppyhood. If they focus very hard and delve into the furthest reaches of their memory, the white wolf can just about feel the warmth radiating from their mother’s belly, and just about smell the sweet scent of milk. But those are just memories, or maybe even the workings of her own imagination in an attempt to grasp what they never had. No, for Zima never had a puppyhood to reminisce on.

      At just a few days old, their small milk-filled puppy body was ripped away from the comfort of her birth-den, mother slaughtered for her pelt and littermates disposed of before being able to grow dangerous. But Zima lived, the largest and strongest of the litter, kept for a future to be worse than death.

This would be the beginning of her deadly dance with humans.

      Instead of a soft den, Zima lived in cages that she constantly outgrew, instead of freshly caught prey, they would be tossed scraps and stingy meat, every possible comfort that a pup should have, you can be certain Zima didn’t even get a taste. Their upbringing was curated to evoke nothing but constant fear and aggression, thick, heavy chains weighing down on their neck - a necessary measure to ensure Zima’s submission to their human handlers. But the young wolf was as wild and feral as can be, untameable no matter how much pain they’d endure - and that was precisely what was expected of her.

    First Blood

      It would be during her adolescence where Zima would be put in the ring against another dog for the first time. The teeth, the wild eyes, the blood. With an opponent bigger and older than her, the young she-wolf was certain it’d be her end. Fight or flight would kick in like a blistering storm, and with nowhere to go, the only option was to fight. Fur flew and the sound of snapping jaws echoed through the ring as spectators cheered and roared for the young fighter’s debut. However, it’d end as quick as it began, Zima’s raw strength and power as a wolf would reign supreme. White fur now stained a crimson red, it’d be her first win of many.

      Fight after fight, this would be all they knew and all they’d know, for this was her purpose from the very beginning. Stolen away and raised to fight in illegal dog rings under the ruse of being a wolf-dog, her spotless record of wins and countless fatalities would earn them the nickname “Biely zvier” - White Beast. However, Zima remained feral to the core, soon even the heavy chains and spears struggling to keep The Beast under submission. She’d get passed around from handler to handler, sold to highest bidders or sometimes even given away for fear of becoming too dangerous, eventually taking the white wolf across the Belarus border. From there, it’s hard to distinguish where she was or who kept them, all that is known is that by the end, they reached Moor’s End in Prymere, a smuggler town with a humble scene in the fighting ring and Zima’s next conquest.

      However, fate had something else in store for the wolf who had, until then, lived in utter misfortune. In the ring, it was a fight like any other, just as brutal and fatal as they always are. But there was something amiss, Zima’s keen, freedom hungry eyes noticed weaknesses in the barriers of the ring before the battle and examined her options. A new region likely meant the people of this area are not familiar with Zima’s cutthroat and wild reputation, The White Beast’s ferocity. They do not know that they are a wolf, not dog. They do not know the risk in overlooking barrier strength.

      At the release to battle, Zima rushed at her opponent, shoving them out of the way and slamming into the barrier. Chaos quickly ensued, people began to run and her handlers took spears to hand, but it was already too late. Even the chains still slung over her neck could not weigh down the searing desire for freedom within them.

Zima was out, bounding through the town and into the first sign of wilderness. Stars, she was free!

    Free Yet Still Lost

      Freedom was sweet, and more importantly, big. The outside world was the biggest thing she’d ever seen, the trees, the sky, the rocks, the smells. It’s all so much. The first few days of freedom ended up more overwhelming than the young wolf anticipated, absentmindedly meandering through forests and resting at streams, attempting to adjust to being able to do… whatever they wanted. There was a day where she spent the entirety sleeping under an overhanging rock, another day it was following random scent trails to see where it’d take them. However, though Zima was a master in fighting, she never learnt how to hunt for herself or track food, find shelter or use herbs. If she didn’t learn something soon, freedom would be the death of her.

      As time went on, she’d resort to scavenging, the chains around her neck difficult to remove and weighing her down too much for hunting. Though it wasn’t difficult to scavenge, the meat wasn’t great and sometimes would require defending or scaring off unwanted feeders, but not many dared oppose a beast their size. It was strangely peaceful.

      Memories of the past still torment Zima though, sick, blood-filled visions and night terrors leaving restful nights few and far between. She could still vividly feel the gripping teeth on her flesh, the metallic stench of sanguine, the blood-curdling yowls. Some days it’d feel as if Zima was back there again, in the ring, in pain, despite the birds chirping overhead and grass beneath their toes. It’s so hard to just forget it all.

      It didn’t help when hallucinations of canine figures began appearing in the distance, sending the she-wolf into wild frenzies every time she saw one, jaws crazily snapping at non-existent enemies, instinctually running to fight. After countless panicked surges like those, each one leading to nothing true, Zima slowly started to learn that perhaps those are just visions. Ghosts of her past. Phantoms formed from fears. But one day, no matter how far she travelled, there’d be a figure in the distance.

      Realisation would set in that this was no mere hallucination, and just like the snap of a twig, it’d begin again. Zima rushes the stranger, barrelling over felled trees and rocks to reach the perceived threat for elimination. The figure stood tall and still, pelt black as ebony and eyes a paralysing amber. This was no foe that they’d ever faced - she didn’t know it yet, but they were a wolf, just like her.

      As good as she may have been against dogs, this stranger knocked Zima down with ease, engaging in a one-sided fight where every move she made, they were 3 steps ahead. Eventually, she was pinned to the floor like prey, teeth clamped and pressing tighter around her neck. In that moment, Zima felt the icey grips of fear render her unmoving. Yet the stranger did not deal the killing blow. Slowly, they’d withdraw, those same amber eyes glaring down at her. There was a trickling sense of shame.

“If you’re to be reckless, then have the skills to survive your own negligence. Not many are as kind as I.”

      Kindness. Funnily enough, this would be the first time she’d ever know of it. Life hasn’t ever been kind, and neither has Zima in return, yet this male offered to spare her own life when she never would his. It would turn out his name is Calsimir, a loner, once a part of a pack but since choosing a life of solitude.

      A rocky start, but Zima would end up travelling with him. He pitied her, and while she didn’t share their story with him, they didn’t need to. The ever heavy chains that hung around her neck were all he needed to understand she’d lived a life better left untold. Calsimir helped take them off, and it felt wonderful. Like a butterfly shedding its cocoon, Zima felt a renewed sense of life and freedom, the shackles of their old life no longer weighing them down.

      Calsimir would be the one to teach the inexperienced she-wolf of all that she missed to learn, what it means to be a wolf and live wild, and more importantly, that dogs aren’t to be trusted. It’s here that she’d learn of the differences between the two canids, that the ghosts of her past were the latter, and whilst not all wolves can also be trusted, only within their own kind will they find safety and companionship. It’d take some time to learn, but acceptance for wolf-kind began to seed.

    Hungry Heart

      Amongst Calsimir’s many teachings and stories, there’d be a particular concept that Zima couldn’t seem to shake the idea of, a strange sense of longing tugging at her chest, heart hungry for a home. The older male spoke of pack living, large collectives of wolves that worked in unison to survive and prosper, away from evil hands of man and dog. She’d beg him to take her there, where the packs are, where she could be accepted and find purpose to her barren life. Although Calsimir refused to lead her to his old pack, he pointed the eager youngster towards Oxley - knowing of Rimehaven that could perhaps be what Zima was looking for. Calsimir was to remain a loner, choosing the ways of solitude as the life he wished for himself, however led Zima as far as he could before dipping their heads goodbye to one another. Their friendship was short, but Zima would never forget his generosity, for sparing her life and for teaching them what it’d mean to be a wolf.

There’s a sense of purpose, like the young wolf finally had a direction to walk in. Pack life. And this fabled ‘Rimehaven’ shall be the key to living out the untouched fantasy.

[ IN-GAME HISTORY ]

[30/04/24] - Application Submitted

[02/05/24] - Accepted!