Post by ghost on Feb 20, 2012 23:39:28 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #626262][scrolly:w(230),c(626262),as(padding-top: 3px; padding-bottom: 0px; font-family: arial; text-transform: lowercase; font-size:10px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: FFFFFF][/scrolly] g e n e r a l Birth Name: Canine Unit 843, Ghost Nickname: 143, -- Current Age: Seven Gender: Male Date of Birth: March 8th, 2005 a p p e a r a n c e Breed: Weimaraner Eye Color: A dull grey-green Coat Color: Slate grey Visual Reference: Click f a m i l y Mate: -- Pups: -- l i k e s - Silence - To be alone - The thrill of the hunt - Good memories of his past - To feel he has a purpose s t r e n g t h s - Keeps his emotions in check, constantly - Is stunningly good at keeping composed in hectic situations - Combat; he's been trained exceptionally - His sense of smell; once again, he was trained to use it to perfection - He's a phenomenal tracker , and a natural leader | [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #626262][scrolly:w(230),c(626262),as(padding-top: 3px; padding-bottom: 0px; font-family: times new roman; text-transform: lowercase; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: FFFFFF)][/scrolly]m e m b e r Preferred Alias: GREYtheFLAILER, Grey Gender: Female Years of Roleplaying: Iuno D: Referral: FHSUIOAHFIUDSOHFIUDSHAOFS Other Characters: Blue! p e d i g r e e Sire: Flint Breed: Weimarner Dam: Ashes Breed: Weimarner d i s l i k e s - Opening up to others - When his PTSS acts up - Having flashbacks - Extremely peppy canines - Loud sounds, such as a car horn w e a k n e s s e s - Thoughts of his past - His Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome - Flashbacks - Loud noises - He needs to have a purpose to feel good about himself a s s o c i a t i o n Stray |
p e r s o n a l i t y
A very regal and mysterious animal indeed, Ghost's name certainly fits him, in most being's eyes. He's a very stern, gruff male, showing little to no emotion on a daily basis, and keeping most of his thoughts to himself. He's not very talkative, nor is he one to strike up unimportant conversation, however when the time comes, he can be a phenomenal leader. With the courage, bravely, loyalty, and honor of a king, Ghost will forever put the ones he cares about, as well as their needs, ahead of his own. It is these, exact traits, in which made the male perfect for the army.
As far as dedication and determination goes, one may be surprised at how intensely Ghost looks at these things. He will not stop until something is done right, and should obstacles pop up in his way, he will certainly find some way around them. This trait, despite his heartaches, still courses through him very strongly, willing him onwards through a particularly depressing, dull life in his eyes.
Now, because of his time spent in the warzone, as well as the loss of a master he was attached to beyond explanation, the male suffers from Post-Tramatic-Stress-Syndrome. He has several triggers to set him into a reeling spiral of panic and aggression, some being as simple as a scream, or a loud noise such as a vehicle screeching to a halt. As well, he frequently suffers from flashbacks, and when coming out of them, is often in soemwhat of a panic as well.
Underneath his hardened, troubled exterior however, Ghost does have a soft, vulnerable side. The side that's exposed during his flashback, and the one he despises. He's frightened of being weak, however, so for another to see this side would be very... interesting, to say the least.
p h y s i q u e
At 27' at the withers, with a sleek, slim yet muscled build, most would consider Ghost to be quite the attractive individual. He's a working dog, and therefore is very fit, though his slate grey pelt is marred with scars, varying in size and shape. For eyes, he has a pair of pale, dull grey-green orbs, of which lack all sort of emotion. He has a cropped tail and webbed feet, a characteristic completely natural for the breed, as well, and takes advantage of these. As far as looks goes when it comes to his expression, Ghost often comes across as a very regal, gruff individual, showing not a hint of emotion.
b i o g r a p h y
NOTE: Sorry if if fails, didn't proof it. D;
From the day Ghost was born, he knew of what his fate was to bring. He was bred for one thing, and one thing only; war. When most hear the word, they often think directly of hundreds and thousands of men heading recklessly into battle, but, what they may not know is this;
When men go into battle, they do not go alone.
Ghost was born into a smaller litter of five to his mother, a flawless purebred Weimarner, and his father whom he never got the pleasure of meeting. Nearly every two-legged within the housing facility had gathered ‘round for the birth, eagerly awaiting such prized puppies, as their bloodlines had been selected carefully, and all expected phenomenal things to come out of the dogs. Not only did each and every animal within their pedigree carry a beautiful temperament, but their natural drive for hunting seemed to be exactly needed, for the task at hand.
He was given the name Canine Unit 143, as every dog in the system was to be titled with a number.
A number. It was as if, before Ghost was even born, he was expected to meet his death.
Most men felt wrongly about the dogs being called by numbers, though their authorities told them it was for the best. Anything with a name, one could get attached to. It would keep heartbreak to a minimum, and thus keep the soldiers focused and determined. Even the trainers were forced to call the animals by their numbers; it was protocol, and therefore, followed without complaint.
Ghost was trained for three, long years of his life, learning both how to distinguish one explosive sent from the next, and how to successfully carry messages from one man to the next. He was jammed with information on how to drag an injured man to safety, how to alert those nearby of danger via howling, and how, on the battlefield, he would need to keep under cover as long as possible. Why, might you ask? Dogs were valuable resources—you stop the messenger, all hell breaks loose. Officers knew, very well, that the dog would be a target for any sniper nearby, and therefore trained the dogs of the danger to the best of their ability. Of course, they had no way of warning the dogs in training of what would happen, should they race out into the open, and thus could only have hope in their training.
They would all learn, soon enough.
Ghost graduated from the training program the same year as each and every one of his siblings, his own abilities clearly superior to their own. His siblings had all performed well in training, of course, though humans had taken attention towards the male’s drive to learn and achieve satisfaction from his handle. He wanted to strive for better, and please his master. The grey male had passed each and every final examination with flying colors, and at the end of his three-year training course, was granted to a soldier whom was being deployed in three weeks. They handed the dog over to the man, so the two could bond and understand one another for said three weeks, before Ghost was put into a crate, and was sent towards the battle field.
Training could have never prepared him for what was to come.
He’d been introduced to the sound of guns and explosions, of course, but from the moment he was unloaded from cargo, the sounds flooded into his ears at an alarming rate. It was so busy, everywhere, and it was a mind0boggling amount for the dog to be able to take in, all at once, but he managed, and when he saw his soldier approaching him, gave a feint tail-wag, thankful for some familiarity. As soon as the man took hold of the dog’s harness leash, Ghost knew he was on the job, and followed after the man, putting his training to work in order to focus on his handler and him alone. Nothing around him mattered; not the men in uniform sprinting from place to place, not the other dogs nearby, who’s wandering gazes were unacceptable in Ghost’s eyes. He just walked alongside his master and watched him, ears perked and body tense with anticipation.
With the months to come, Ghost grew unfathomably close with his handler. People were in awe by how obedient and loyal he was towards the man, though Ghost felt it was his job, his purpose. Should his master tell him to stay somewhere, he would—for hours, even—until the man came back, and lead him elsewhere. He was a patient animal, who trusted his handler to the point where he would run into the field of open fire, if he said so. Ghost was fearless, because he trusted the man. And, the man trusted him.
It took months, before the battle actually began. Months of preparation, bringing troops, and setting up base camp, before finally, the alarms were rung, and men were sent off into the field of war. It was early morning, before dawn, when each and every soldier was forcibly awoken, and was sent into the opposing base. The group was silent, wading through the long grass towards the other team’s base without problem, believing they were all in the clear. But, unfortunately, a novice soldier’s gun went off, successfully awakening the entire opposing side.
All hell broke loose.
Gunshot after gunshot exploded within the canine’s ears as he waited within the cover of a nearby thicket, his master kneeling down beside him, hand clasped lightly around the dog’s harness. A thick, nasty fog had devoured the battle field, and one could barely make out a man yards away, making the soldiers that had stayed back restless. Body after body slumped to the ground, and immediately, the coppery smell of blood reached the canine’s ears, and he squirmed, knowing well of his job. Blood meant and injury, and an injury meant a man in need of help. Ghost knew he was that help. Him, as well as the other canines stationed around the battle field. As a man was shot nearby, giving an agonizing yell as he collapsed to the ground, Ghost’s handler released his collar, and jerked his head towards the fallen man, his face contorted into an expression of concern. Without thinking of the risks, the dog crouched down and raced off towards the man, keeping himself low and steady towards ground. Several shots were aimed his way, but the dog moved far too swiftly, and within seconds, he made his way towards the fallen individual, crouching beside him so his belly grazed against the ground. It was evident that the soldier was still breathing, so the dog paused, licking his face in order to let the man know help had arrived, before grasping onto the male’s heavy, padded coat, and beginning to pull.
Six, long minutes later, his handler began attending to the individual, and Ghost was sent out once more, to drag back yet another fallen.
For eighteen, long hours, this was how Ghost’s day went. By the end of it, his entire body was sore and shaking from the exertion, and flesh wounds covered his entire body from the barbed wire surrounding the field. And yet, he was in high spirits, his owner praising him greatly for his achievements. That night, when all were called for an early dinner before the morning, every man Ghost passed gave him a solemn pat on the head, or offered him a scrap of meat. He refused each and every food offering, however, and stood beside his handler, eyes fixed adoringly upon the man.
Each and every one of his siblings had died, that day. He was the last left.
Because of this, Ghost soon became considered a miracle.
For four, long years to come, he continued his job with success, bringing the injured to the side, scenting out explosives within the ground, and working as a therapy dog for those that were being housed within the makeshift medical centre. Despite the rules, he was nicknamed Ghost, for his ability to disappear into a scene. He would slip into the field of battle, and be unseen until he was bringing back someone or something to please his handler. He was an amazing worker, and he would surely still be in the line of work, if only tragedy hadn’t torn him so violently away from it.
It was early morning, when his handler was sent out on an emergency, to pick up a fallen individual. Ghost had a gash from the barbed wire from the day before and so he’d ran out instead, feeling it was no problem. His owner had told him to stay, and so the male sat, staring hopelessly after him, imprisoned by his loyalty to stay in one place.
Two minutes later, beyond the canine’s sight, the man was shot and he, like so many others, fall to the ground beneath him, dead.
Ghost didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He paused, ears perking forwards, as he gave a silent whine, waiting for the man to let him free of his metaphorical binds, and come back with another soldier, only to pat him on the side like he always did. Minutes turned into hours, and soon enough, hours turned into days. The war had long moved on, and yet, Ghost stayed put, entirely still, fully believing his man would come back to him.
Three days later, a few fellow officers found him.
They tried to move Ghost, to urge him onwards, but he simply refused, his lips peeling over his ivories in warning when they neared. It took the both of them, with force, to load the dog into their vehicle, whom was howling and barking hysterically at the time, and begin their trek back to the new base. They stopped to give him water and food, and although the male was on no good terms with the men, he took the offerings, his body desperately needing them. Turns out, stopping hadn’t been a good idea. A helicopter from above spotted the enemy vehicle, housing over 20 soldiers, and dropped a bomb just feet from the vehicle.
Everything exploded into a mess of flame and screaming, and Ghost was just able to slip from his cage, before it, too, was devoured in flame. Men writhe about on the ground, screaming and crying, and the male just curled in on himself, shaking and whining as everything his him at once. It was too much. He was bloodied and broken, as was everyone around him, and not only had the male lost his family, he’d lost his master. The most important thing in the world to him, gone.
It was after this moment, where Ghost developed Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. When he was put back into battle, the male simply shrunk into the shadows, his entire body shaking in fright, and he refused to work. The harsh world of war had taken a toll on him, and it was obvious he couldn’t ever work again. So, Ghost was shipped back to the mainland, and was expected to resume the rest of his life like a normal house-pet. He was adopted by an ex-soldier who yes, he was a nice man, but no—he wasn’t Ghost’s man. And so, the dog escaped. He simply cleared the backyard fence, without problem, like he had with so many fences during the war.
Freedom was his within minutes, and the male took to the streets. He didn’t know what to do with himself, and felt purposeless immediately. But, anything was better than living with someone attempting to replace the one you loved, right?