Post by Wildrun on Sept 25, 2008 17:55:12 GMT -5
Name: Taratoo the Red Claw, Marauder of the Northern Seas!
Gender: His name is so lengthy and his ego is big. Yeah, he's a male.
Age: About 24. I'm not sure (a.k.a, I can't choose how old he is. -.-")
Species: Stoat. Even if you can't tell anymore.
Occupation: Leader of a rabid crew of other stoats...has breached his ship on a reef, so is currently sweeping inland just northeast of Mossflower...
--Physical Appearance: Lean and nasty, Taratoo's claws are abnormally (as in, in a bad way) long and thick, the edges curling over towards his paws again but never turning into a hook, as he keeps them filed, sharp, and to a point. Although wiry, his upper torso is well-muscled, and he has broad shoulders. He never has anything but a flowing blood-crimson cape adorning his upper-body-half, so as to let the world see the curling, evil-looking tattoo of what may be rushing water, may be gouting fire, curling around his chest and shoulders, and back, tendrils tugging at the corner of his right eye. His black, cold eyes that can see through your lies straight to what drives you to spout them--what is your fear? He'll use it. His red claws, bright like dripping blood, his crimson cloak, pale, long fur, black eyes, and billowing black pants. A large, glittering saber sways at his right hip--and an array of viles filled with poison are strapped to his belt at the left. The vials are only about the size of one's thumb, hourglass-shaped with dark, opaque glass and small corks stoppering the top. What kind of poisons are in them? I'm sure you don't want to know.
--Possessions His cloak, matching the colors of his claws if only a bit deeper in shade (because NOTHING is allowed to be the same color of his claws! Nothing! Absolutely nothing can compare to his claws...), his maroon-hilted saber with a gold-hued gem set into the pommel, his 9-viles of poison of the foulest kind, his black-and-red camo-splattered belt (not very 'camo', though, is it?). His late--and stolen--ship, the Bloodpool , who is currently scuttled on the shore he's driven his crew away from. Ah, the crew. I suppose you could say he owns them too.
--Personality: Cold, seemingly levelheaded, and cool to the bone when facing a decision, Taratoo is notoriously capricous...you have no idea whether he'll let you discover for yourself if the drink is spiked or shove the entire goblet half-way down your throat. Quickly prone to anger when the right strings are pulled, he's usually uncaring about anything but his goals, which he'll always keep shrouded in mystery. When you think he has what he wants, he'll pull out the one thing you would die for and manipulate your soul with it--considering he believes any afterlife will also fall under his claws, he does not care what he has to do, who he has to backstab, or who he has to befriend to have the world in his claws.
--Strengths: He has no problem with killing anybody he has too--and he doesn't waste his energy if it's not worth it. Deadly with his long, thick claws as his weapons and fluid as a snake with the saber, Tataroo takes no nonsense from his crew after being forced to retreat from a raid on a colony of mice some years earlier, and they obey him without question. He may have a weakness, but as of yet, he has convinced himself he does not know fear--which is as good as lacking fear itself.
--Weaknesses: On occasion, he leaves his foes alive--like that little black-furred mousemaid that lived on those northern shores...Why waste time slitting the throat of a mousemaid? With all those injuries, she'd die anyway. Not his problem. Goodbeasts never lived long. According to him, they're all big-talking weaklings who'll flee as soon as it's obvious that all hope has become lost (which, apparently, is where he comes in). Besides, Tataroo Red Claw has no fear...no fear...no fear of the black-leather-wings that glide through the night...
--History: [glow=red,2,300] My history? A stupid question. There is nothing to tell that you will gain knowledge from, nor that will help you to unravel my soul--Do you want to know why?
Because I don't have one, you fool, that's why.[/glow]
Ehhh...Yeahhh....
Small, quick Ratoota slips past the larger stoats, running headlong through the melee and carrying his spoils. Laughing out loud, he jumps the feasting table and food scatters everywhere--other juveniles snarl at him as they realize he beat them to the prize, and rival gang members leap to their paws, slings whirring in the air and stones humming past his ears.
Still laughing insanely, Ratoota catapults around a corner and scatters his own followers. With bewildered shouts, they take off after him, shouting curses and fouls oaths at the mob behind them and adding their own stones and small arrows to the riot.
"Ahahahahaaaa!!! I got ittt!!!" he screams, heedless of everything behind him. "Me, me MEE!!!! I got ittt!!! It's all mine, I got ittt!!!"
"Ratoota!" one of his followers cries as he stumbles and falls. "Help, boss! Please!"
"Chahahahahaaaa!!! Get up yourself if you want to see it! Wheeheheeee!!!"
The youngling screamed in distress, but his boss had already ducked under another table and sent cutlery flying through the air...
"Boss!" screams the stoat, gurgling as the pronged utensil turns over, shining so prettily, landing point down...
"BOOOSSSSS---!!!!"
Startled and snapped out of his euphoric glee by the bloodcurdling shriek, Ratoota stops, turns, stares, his jaw dropping open and the parchment-wrapped package dropping from his trembling paws. The entire chaotic scene comes to a halt--every stoat's eyes are drawn inexplicably to the prone form splayed out on the dirt floor...
"Wh..." Blink, gulp, try again. "Wh-wh..." Ratoota stops, takes in a deep shuddering breath, closes his eyes tightly for a moment and opens them again. "What--" What has he done?
"DEAD!" howls a mother from the middle of the crowd, dropping to her knees and howling out her sorrows to the sky. "DEAD! DEAD! Your fault...all your fault, you fault, Ratoota!"
"I--"
"GET OUT!" she screams at him, packing every foul curse and emotion into the word. "GET OUT! LEAVE! TAKE THAT HORRID THING! NO MORE! NEVER AGAIN...GET OUUUUUTTTTT!!!"
Suddenly frightened for his life, soaked to the core by the cold, unyielding dread of reality, Ratoota scrambles to compose himself, fails, snachesthe package off the floor, turns, and runs, runs faster than he did even a moment ago during the chase, before everything went so horribly wrong...They're all after him again, every last stoat in the room as he explodes through the rickety door and knocks it off his hinges, hurtling out into the cool night, leaping over anything in his way..what is THAT? Wings! At night?! Some pack of monter birds swoop past him, and he screams, picking up his pace and he keeps like that until an hour after dawn breaks. His lungs burn, and every cool-aired breath sets fire to his throat. His legs refuse to respond, twitching and feeling as though they've already fallen off as he lays there, staring empty-minded at the sky, bathed in his own cold sweat.
After another long, unmeasured moment, Ratoota stirs. He gains control of his arms again, pushes himself upright, and gropes in the wet grass he lays in for the package.
Finding it, he blinks at it uncomprehendingly. For this? This thing wrapped in parchment soaked through by water? This is what he murdered for? His breathing accelerates as, with a shaking paw, he begins to peel the layers of wrapping free, letting them drop to the ground in a limp pile until the worn cover of a book is shown.
Book?
Something sticks in his throat, and he can't see straight as he tries once, twice, three times to grip the edge--it must be very wet, too slick, that's all...--and pull the cover open...
The writing inside is smeared and illegible. No matter how hard he peers at the pages, Ratoota can't read a thing.
"N....N...N--...--o....No, no, no nonononono!!!!"
Page after page, nothing but water-soaked scribbles smudging the pages...
"NO!"
And then, just as he begins to hyperventilate and on the verge of panic, he stops, nearly ripping the page as he clenches his paw so tight he hears his knuckles crack. Not that he cares, of course, not after his spinning eyes decipher what's written, plain as daylight, so easy to see in clear letters on the page...
[glow=red,2,300]To the ens of the earth our wrath shall reach, splattering the blood of foebeasts, painting our claws red until none but I shall stand and laugh at any who beg my forgiveness.
I am Warlord. I help no one. I love none.
Any who try to befriend me shall die.[/glow]
"...NNNOOOOOOO!!!!"
Ratoota doesn't even think in his terror as for ages, until his lungs give way, he screams.
===
Dead, is it, then? All dead. Not a single one left not in the crew.
The deep, rich life-blood of the kinbeasts he has fled from a year ago lived.
Good. Very good.
The stoats behind him watched with wary, fearful eyes. The only thing left to do was reinstall the fear...
Tataroo, soon to abandon his old weak name so wrinkled with fear, dipped his heavy curved claws in the pool of blood.
Very, very good, indeed.
===
In the midst of the fighting, another foe went down. And another. And another.
And another.
There seemed to be a problem, though. A juvenile black-furred mousemaid was howling warcries that matched the way she fought--wild and without caution. Such a shame he didn't have a beast like that in his crew. All cowards and weaklings at heart, the lot of them. Ah, well. Look, a white-furred mouse is dragging her from the fight just now...Oh. He sees, then. Tataroo's cold black eyes watch as the white-furred mouse points down the beach, where another mouse is falling under the attacks of three of his crewbeasts. Howling and raging and bellowing her warcry, the black-furred mouse is more infuriated than ever. Tataroo realizes right away those three crewbeasts will not live.
She's much different than last time we hit this beach, he realizes. This may become a problem.
But, no. She slays a single of his crewbeasts, and the other two loose some nerve but dive desperately at her and the other mouse, to kill her so she may not slay them too. The other mouse falls. Black Wind whips into a tempest, and the two crewbeasts die. She is in control no longe.r All the easier to kill.
She's shrieking so horribly, Tataroo's ears ring. Something pricks the back of his mind, but it does not register as he watches the Black Wind hurl herself into the fighting again, causing mass chaos and guarding another three of her comrades, teeth bared, eyes glinting in berserker rage.
Another five stoats down. The other mice see hope in the slaughter she's causing. How ironic for goodbeasts, Tataroo thinks with a smirks. No matter. They'll die. As if to mark the point, he runs his saber through another foe's skull.
Furious, maddened brown eyes glare at him with such ferocity, Tataroo finds his only defense is the glare back as Black Wind charges his way...
"Retreaaaatt!!!"
Tataroo didn't give the order, and he really ought to kill whoever did, but all that later. Right now, Black Wind's wounds seem to catch up to her as her eyes clear for only an instant and the crew stampedes back to the ship.
No one else looking their way. He hefts his saber, then pauses and decides to do tis mouse an honor--he will end her life with his claws. He's just about ready to tear through her neck arteries, when...
Her eyes flicker open. Tataroo blinks, no sign registering on his face to express his shock. That hatred...the same as the mother's that one night. Blood spurts between her teeth as she forces snarling words out of her mouth...
"Death to the Red Claws!" she snarls, her paw grasping the end of her whip. "I will KILL you! Die and stay in the realm of nightmares where you belong, Tataroo the Stoat!"
Tataroo studies her face. Such vast amount of hatred for him is engraved on her face...Pity. She'll soon die of blood loss. Kicking her uncaringly, he turns his back and heads back to his ship. His crew is waiting, his claws are dripping in blood, and the Black Wind is leeching her blood fluids into the earth behind him.
Good.
===
Both of them this time, how annoying.
Of course, it's always truly a problem when someone sets your ship on fire. Tataroo scowls. It was now entirely safe to say that the repairs to his ship would never get done. His life as a seafaring marauder seemed to be invariably shortened, if not ended entirely.
Although, he decides, marching at the front of his rabid crewbeasts as the penetrate the fringe of the wood, So are the lives of those two mice. Oaklea and Mapel Wildrun.
For this, you will burn, The marauder with red claws decides, You will bleed until there is nothing left, and then...
...Yes. Yes, you will wish I killed you before, on the beach. Yes.
Good.
--Relationships: His crew--he contorls them utterly.
A dead crew of otters, who so kindly donated their ship.
Mnay daed stoats.
And a black-furred mouse, a maid most certaintly dead by now, as well.
Not to mention the mother and the stoat boy from his old gang.
--Other: Did I mention the color of his claws? *sarcasm*
((Sorry his history is so bloody--pun not intended--confusing. Like, if you saw it through his yese, that's how it would come out (shortened version, of course...) Here's a secret for ya'--the book was a trial for gangs of young stoats to compete in. Which ever gang made it out of the feasting room where it was kept with it first would all be promoted to the elder ranks and given more power in the tribe, but every stoat otherwise feasting and not caring how it went would have to try and stop the stoat holding the book when it came out. Tataroo's--or rather, Ratoota-- was in troible because no one had actually DIED before that, and it constitued as he murdered the one who died. So he was outcast, and he had the book....called the Book of Warlord, the only line legible in the entire thing was the one i bolded/italizied/glowied/underlined...shoot me if you must, but I had to empasize. While he was running away with it, a bunch of bats swept past and scared the living...stuff...put of him. He's terrified of bats, but he doesn't know that. XD And, about that book...Tataroo was never supposed to read it--if he made it outside the book would be hidden again and he would've been mad the way every other evildoer is--now he has...issues. -.-" No duh, right? Yeah...and he told the former members of his gnag that they could join him or die when he finally came back, and thus the rest of the tribe perished. He dyed his claws red that day, and for whatever reason the blood never washed off. So, yeah. He went out along the shore and added more stoats to his little army with each tribe they met and slew the rest. Eventually he stole a ship from some seafaring otter and painted the word 'Bloodpool' on it's side with his claws--in blood. Yeah...he has an unhealthy obsession going on here, don't ya' think? XD I didn't put that bit in there, but it happened, so...meh. In the last few sequences, he attacks Oaklea's and Mapel's beach the second time--I didn't type the first in here, either. Something I left out of Oaklea's bio was that last little encounter with Tataroo when he left her alive. She didn't pass out until her kin realized she wasn't dead and began to treat her, and that last bit was after Oaklea and Mapel set fire to his ship and had to split up, a scene i've left out of everyone's bio so far...Yeah. Just thought I'd clear it up.
Tataroo: So you can think.
Me: -.-" *presses the behavior button*
*fizz...*
Tataroo: ...
Me: Blast it! Now I get why Oaklea hates you...
Tataroo: Hnnm. *smirk*))
-----
Editing on December 19th. Shade had a good idea to use this. Since Tataroo's a warlord now, I thought this would come in handy.
Horde Name: Basically, the crew from the Bloodpool. I have yet to actually name them. ^^"
Horde Leader: Tataroo Raketail, the Stoat with Red Claws.
Horde Captains/second-in-commnad; Matecol Maximillian Nzinus Ruffian Riffraff, a.k.a Matey (I've started calling him Mateycol, considering his slight bipolar-ness).
Destinguishing horde traits/armor; Recently, one of the brighter soldiers created a flag from a bit of old sail they'd been carrying around for whatever reason. The flag is, of course, red, with an black hour-glass broken in half in the middle.
Aproximate horde number; Usually from one to two hundred stoats. At full strength, about three hundred and fifty.
Main horde species; Lots and lots and lots of stoats. There are some others, too, but mainly stoats.
Horde Type; A surprisingly organized group of corsairs. Tataroo "borrowed" some tactics from Vikings--who can kick his butt, by the way--but they are not Vikings. They will never be awesome enough to be Vikings. Just pirates. And yes, there is a difference.
Main goal of Horde; To capture Redwall Abbey, sell it to the highest bidder, take as many slaves and riches as they can, get a new ship/fix the old one, and head back to their fruitful life at sea. That, and Tataroo would be satisfied with killing Oaklea Wildrun. He doesn't care so much about Mapel. ^^"
Gender: His name is so lengthy and his ego is big. Yeah, he's a male.
Age: About 24. I'm not sure (a.k.a, I can't choose how old he is. -.-")
Species: Stoat. Even if you can't tell anymore.
Occupation: Leader of a rabid crew of other stoats...has breached his ship on a reef, so is currently sweeping inland just northeast of Mossflower...
--Physical Appearance: Lean and nasty, Taratoo's claws are abnormally (as in, in a bad way) long and thick, the edges curling over towards his paws again but never turning into a hook, as he keeps them filed, sharp, and to a point. Although wiry, his upper torso is well-muscled, and he has broad shoulders. He never has anything but a flowing blood-crimson cape adorning his upper-body-half, so as to let the world see the curling, evil-looking tattoo of what may be rushing water, may be gouting fire, curling around his chest and shoulders, and back, tendrils tugging at the corner of his right eye. His black, cold eyes that can see through your lies straight to what drives you to spout them--what is your fear? He'll use it. His red claws, bright like dripping blood, his crimson cloak, pale, long fur, black eyes, and billowing black pants. A large, glittering saber sways at his right hip--and an array of viles filled with poison are strapped to his belt at the left. The vials are only about the size of one's thumb, hourglass-shaped with dark, opaque glass and small corks stoppering the top. What kind of poisons are in them? I'm sure you don't want to know.
--Possessions His cloak, matching the colors of his claws if only a bit deeper in shade (because NOTHING is allowed to be the same color of his claws! Nothing! Absolutely nothing can compare to his claws...), his maroon-hilted saber with a gold-hued gem set into the pommel, his 9-viles of poison of the foulest kind, his black-and-red camo-splattered belt (not very 'camo', though, is it?). His late--and stolen--ship, the Bloodpool , who is currently scuttled on the shore he's driven his crew away from. Ah, the crew. I suppose you could say he owns them too.
--Personality: Cold, seemingly levelheaded, and cool to the bone when facing a decision, Taratoo is notoriously capricous...you have no idea whether he'll let you discover for yourself if the drink is spiked or shove the entire goblet half-way down your throat. Quickly prone to anger when the right strings are pulled, he's usually uncaring about anything but his goals, which he'll always keep shrouded in mystery. When you think he has what he wants, he'll pull out the one thing you would die for and manipulate your soul with it--considering he believes any afterlife will also fall under his claws, he does not care what he has to do, who he has to backstab, or who he has to befriend to have the world in his claws.
--Strengths: He has no problem with killing anybody he has too--and he doesn't waste his energy if it's not worth it. Deadly with his long, thick claws as his weapons and fluid as a snake with the saber, Tataroo takes no nonsense from his crew after being forced to retreat from a raid on a colony of mice some years earlier, and they obey him without question. He may have a weakness, but as of yet, he has convinced himself he does not know fear--which is as good as lacking fear itself.
--Weaknesses: On occasion, he leaves his foes alive--like that little black-furred mousemaid that lived on those northern shores...Why waste time slitting the throat of a mousemaid? With all those injuries, she'd die anyway. Not his problem. Goodbeasts never lived long. According to him, they're all big-talking weaklings who'll flee as soon as it's obvious that all hope has become lost (which, apparently, is where he comes in). Besides, Tataroo Red Claw has no fear...no fear...no fear of the black-leather-wings that glide through the night...
--History: [glow=red,2,300] My history? A stupid question. There is nothing to tell that you will gain knowledge from, nor that will help you to unravel my soul--Do you want to know why?
Because I don't have one, you fool, that's why.[/glow]
Ehhh...Yeahhh....
Small, quick Ratoota slips past the larger stoats, running headlong through the melee and carrying his spoils. Laughing out loud, he jumps the feasting table and food scatters everywhere--other juveniles snarl at him as they realize he beat them to the prize, and rival gang members leap to their paws, slings whirring in the air and stones humming past his ears.
Still laughing insanely, Ratoota catapults around a corner and scatters his own followers. With bewildered shouts, they take off after him, shouting curses and fouls oaths at the mob behind them and adding their own stones and small arrows to the riot.
"Ahahahahaaaa!!! I got ittt!!!" he screams, heedless of everything behind him. "Me, me MEE!!!! I got ittt!!! It's all mine, I got ittt!!!"
"Ratoota!" one of his followers cries as he stumbles and falls. "Help, boss! Please!"
"Chahahahahaaaa!!! Get up yourself if you want to see it! Wheeheheeee!!!"
The youngling screamed in distress, but his boss had already ducked under another table and sent cutlery flying through the air...
"Boss!" screams the stoat, gurgling as the pronged utensil turns over, shining so prettily, landing point down...
"BOOOSSSSS---!!!!"
Startled and snapped out of his euphoric glee by the bloodcurdling shriek, Ratoota stops, turns, stares, his jaw dropping open and the parchment-wrapped package dropping from his trembling paws. The entire chaotic scene comes to a halt--every stoat's eyes are drawn inexplicably to the prone form splayed out on the dirt floor...
"Wh..." Blink, gulp, try again. "Wh-wh..." Ratoota stops, takes in a deep shuddering breath, closes his eyes tightly for a moment and opens them again. "What--" What has he done?
"DEAD!" howls a mother from the middle of the crowd, dropping to her knees and howling out her sorrows to the sky. "DEAD! DEAD! Your fault...all your fault, you fault, Ratoota!"
"I--"
"GET OUT!" she screams at him, packing every foul curse and emotion into the word. "GET OUT! LEAVE! TAKE THAT HORRID THING! NO MORE! NEVER AGAIN...GET OUUUUUTTTTT!!!"
Suddenly frightened for his life, soaked to the core by the cold, unyielding dread of reality, Ratoota scrambles to compose himself, fails, snachesthe package off the floor, turns, and runs, runs faster than he did even a moment ago during the chase, before everything went so horribly wrong...They're all after him again, every last stoat in the room as he explodes through the rickety door and knocks it off his hinges, hurtling out into the cool night, leaping over anything in his way..what is THAT? Wings! At night?! Some pack of monter birds swoop past him, and he screams, picking up his pace and he keeps like that until an hour after dawn breaks. His lungs burn, and every cool-aired breath sets fire to his throat. His legs refuse to respond, twitching and feeling as though they've already fallen off as he lays there, staring empty-minded at the sky, bathed in his own cold sweat.
After another long, unmeasured moment, Ratoota stirs. He gains control of his arms again, pushes himself upright, and gropes in the wet grass he lays in for the package.
Finding it, he blinks at it uncomprehendingly. For this? This thing wrapped in parchment soaked through by water? This is what he murdered for? His breathing accelerates as, with a shaking paw, he begins to peel the layers of wrapping free, letting them drop to the ground in a limp pile until the worn cover of a book is shown.
Book?
Something sticks in his throat, and he can't see straight as he tries once, twice, three times to grip the edge--it must be very wet, too slick, that's all...--and pull the cover open...
The writing inside is smeared and illegible. No matter how hard he peers at the pages, Ratoota can't read a thing.
"N....N...N--...--o....No, no, no nonononono!!!!"
Page after page, nothing but water-soaked scribbles smudging the pages...
"NO!"
And then, just as he begins to hyperventilate and on the verge of panic, he stops, nearly ripping the page as he clenches his paw so tight he hears his knuckles crack. Not that he cares, of course, not after his spinning eyes decipher what's written, plain as daylight, so easy to see in clear letters on the page...
[glow=red,2,300]To the ens of the earth our wrath shall reach, splattering the blood of foebeasts, painting our claws red until none but I shall stand and laugh at any who beg my forgiveness.
I am Warlord. I help no one. I love none.
Any who try to befriend me shall die.[/glow]
"...NNNOOOOOOO!!!!"
Ratoota doesn't even think in his terror as for ages, until his lungs give way, he screams.
===
Dead, is it, then? All dead. Not a single one left not in the crew.
The deep, rich life-blood of the kinbeasts he has fled from a year ago lived.
Good. Very good.
The stoats behind him watched with wary, fearful eyes. The only thing left to do was reinstall the fear...
Tataroo, soon to abandon his old weak name so wrinkled with fear, dipped his heavy curved claws in the pool of blood.
Very, very good, indeed.
===
In the midst of the fighting, another foe went down. And another. And another.
And another.
There seemed to be a problem, though. A juvenile black-furred mousemaid was howling warcries that matched the way she fought--wild and without caution. Such a shame he didn't have a beast like that in his crew. All cowards and weaklings at heart, the lot of them. Ah, well. Look, a white-furred mouse is dragging her from the fight just now...Oh. He sees, then. Tataroo's cold black eyes watch as the white-furred mouse points down the beach, where another mouse is falling under the attacks of three of his crewbeasts. Howling and raging and bellowing her warcry, the black-furred mouse is more infuriated than ever. Tataroo realizes right away those three crewbeasts will not live.
She's much different than last time we hit this beach, he realizes. This may become a problem.
But, no. She slays a single of his crewbeasts, and the other two loose some nerve but dive desperately at her and the other mouse, to kill her so she may not slay them too. The other mouse falls. Black Wind whips into a tempest, and the two crewbeasts die. She is in control no longe.r All the easier to kill.
She's shrieking so horribly, Tataroo's ears ring. Something pricks the back of his mind, but it does not register as he watches the Black Wind hurl herself into the fighting again, causing mass chaos and guarding another three of her comrades, teeth bared, eyes glinting in berserker rage.
Another five stoats down. The other mice see hope in the slaughter she's causing. How ironic for goodbeasts, Tataroo thinks with a smirks. No matter. They'll die. As if to mark the point, he runs his saber through another foe's skull.
Furious, maddened brown eyes glare at him with such ferocity, Tataroo finds his only defense is the glare back as Black Wind charges his way...
"Retreaaaatt!!!"
Tataroo didn't give the order, and he really ought to kill whoever did, but all that later. Right now, Black Wind's wounds seem to catch up to her as her eyes clear for only an instant and the crew stampedes back to the ship.
No one else looking their way. He hefts his saber, then pauses and decides to do tis mouse an honor--he will end her life with his claws. He's just about ready to tear through her neck arteries, when...
Her eyes flicker open. Tataroo blinks, no sign registering on his face to express his shock. That hatred...the same as the mother's that one night. Blood spurts between her teeth as she forces snarling words out of her mouth...
"Death to the Red Claws!" she snarls, her paw grasping the end of her whip. "I will KILL you! Die and stay in the realm of nightmares where you belong, Tataroo the Stoat!"
Tataroo studies her face. Such vast amount of hatred for him is engraved on her face...Pity. She'll soon die of blood loss. Kicking her uncaringly, he turns his back and heads back to his ship. His crew is waiting, his claws are dripping in blood, and the Black Wind is leeching her blood fluids into the earth behind him.
Good.
===
Both of them this time, how annoying.
Of course, it's always truly a problem when someone sets your ship on fire. Tataroo scowls. It was now entirely safe to say that the repairs to his ship would never get done. His life as a seafaring marauder seemed to be invariably shortened, if not ended entirely.
Although, he decides, marching at the front of his rabid crewbeasts as the penetrate the fringe of the wood, So are the lives of those two mice. Oaklea and Mapel Wildrun.
For this, you will burn, The marauder with red claws decides, You will bleed until there is nothing left, and then...
...Yes. Yes, you will wish I killed you before, on the beach. Yes.
Good.
--Relationships: His crew--he contorls them utterly.
A dead crew of otters, who so kindly donated their ship.
Mnay daed stoats.
And a black-furred mouse, a maid most certaintly dead by now, as well.
Not to mention the mother and the stoat boy from his old gang.
--Other: Did I mention the color of his claws? *sarcasm*
((Sorry his history is so bloody--pun not intended--confusing. Like, if you saw it through his yese, that's how it would come out (shortened version, of course...) Here's a secret for ya'--the book was a trial for gangs of young stoats to compete in. Which ever gang made it out of the feasting room where it was kept with it first would all be promoted to the elder ranks and given more power in the tribe, but every stoat otherwise feasting and not caring how it went would have to try and stop the stoat holding the book when it came out. Tataroo's--or rather, Ratoota-- was in troible because no one had actually DIED before that, and it constitued as he murdered the one who died. So he was outcast, and he had the book....called the Book of Warlord, the only line legible in the entire thing was the one i bolded/italizied/glowied/underlined...shoot me if you must, but I had to empasize. While he was running away with it, a bunch of bats swept past and scared the living...stuff...put of him. He's terrified of bats, but he doesn't know that. XD And, about that book...Tataroo was never supposed to read it--if he made it outside the book would be hidden again and he would've been mad the way every other evildoer is--now he has...issues. -.-" No duh, right? Yeah...and he told the former members of his gnag that they could join him or die when he finally came back, and thus the rest of the tribe perished. He dyed his claws red that day, and for whatever reason the blood never washed off. So, yeah. He went out along the shore and added more stoats to his little army with each tribe they met and slew the rest. Eventually he stole a ship from some seafaring otter and painted the word 'Bloodpool' on it's side with his claws--in blood. Yeah...he has an unhealthy obsession going on here, don't ya' think? XD I didn't put that bit in there, but it happened, so...meh. In the last few sequences, he attacks Oaklea's and Mapel's beach the second time--I didn't type the first in here, either. Something I left out of Oaklea's bio was that last little encounter with Tataroo when he left her alive. She didn't pass out until her kin realized she wasn't dead and began to treat her, and that last bit was after Oaklea and Mapel set fire to his ship and had to split up, a scene i've left out of everyone's bio so far...Yeah. Just thought I'd clear it up.
Tataroo: So you can think.
Me: -.-" *presses the behavior button*
*fizz...*
Tataroo: ...
Me: Blast it! Now I get why Oaklea hates you...
Tataroo: Hnnm. *smirk*))
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Editing on December 19th. Shade had a good idea to use this. Since Tataroo's a warlord now, I thought this would come in handy.
Horde Name: Basically, the crew from the Bloodpool. I have yet to actually name them. ^^"
Horde Leader: Tataroo Raketail, the Stoat with Red Claws.
Horde Captains/second-in-commnad; Matecol Maximillian Nzinus Ruffian Riffraff, a.k.a Matey (I've started calling him Mateycol, considering his slight bipolar-ness).
Destinguishing horde traits/armor; Recently, one of the brighter soldiers created a flag from a bit of old sail they'd been carrying around for whatever reason. The flag is, of course, red, with an black hour-glass broken in half in the middle.
Aproximate horde number; Usually from one to two hundred stoats. At full strength, about three hundred and fifty.
Main horde species; Lots and lots and lots of stoats. There are some others, too, but mainly stoats.
Horde Type; A surprisingly organized group of corsairs. Tataroo "borrowed" some tactics from Vikings--who can kick his butt, by the way--but they are not Vikings. They will never be awesome enough to be Vikings. Just pirates. And yes, there is a difference.
Main goal of Horde; To capture Redwall Abbey, sell it to the highest bidder, take as many slaves and riches as they can, get a new ship/fix the old one, and head back to their fruitful life at sea. That, and Tataroo would be satisfied with killing Oaklea Wildrun. He doesn't care so much about Mapel. ^^"
