[Gray Wolf] Dagwood

[Dagwood]

OOC

Name: Dagwood.
Years RPing: 9 years, give or take.
Other: -
How You Found Us: One of those top RP sites, via Google.


General

Name: Huxley Dagwood, strongly prefers Dagwood.
Birthday: 10 April 2013
Gender: Male.
Species: Gray Wolf.


Physical

Height: 30 inches.
Length: 50 inches.
Weight: 130 pounds.
Coat Color: Brown, Black, White.
Eye Color: Dark brown.
Health Issues: -
Other Information: Has a stubby tail.


Mental

Mental Stability: Walks the line between sane and unstable; manages to appear even-keeled regardless of emotional state.

History: Dagwood and his father were two peas in a pod, spitting images of one another, so alike it earned him the wrath - and lust - of his mother with age. Even while nearly half both he and his father's size, a temperamental mouthful of teeth were no match for an unsuspecting throat. Mother was unpredictable, inexplicably forcing her family to walk on eggshells in her presence lest they risk their own tails... Accounting for Dagwood's stub - made an example of while he was still too young to cause much harm if he retaliated; it only succeeded in breaking him, terrorizing him into submitting to her every whim - same as his father, come to find out. Dagwood struggled with feelings of resentment towards his dad for slinking off when it was Dag that had earned a beating - not him - he disappeared, never once looking over his shoulder no matter how much his own son yowled... bled... begged for his opposition. The less responsive he was, the better; the number of attacks declined with the passing of months. Each and every thrashing was a lesson learned.

    It was just the three of them. Late at night, Dagwood and his father would banquet in the clearing outside of their den and present one another with their smallest kills, the easiest to hide; it was a tradition of sorts, one that evolved to become a little more ritualistic. Night after night - once the two of them realized Mother was an inexplainably heavy sleeper - they rehashed their thankfulness for those shared moments of starlit peace. They could laugh out loud, wrestle - they had before, thumping, rolling into the mound out of which their home was fashioned, even... they froze in sheer terror, but nothing ever came of the gaffe - and, lastly, wander. Countless heart-to-hearts revealed Dagwood's existence was practically a miracle, that his mother had eaten his brothers and sisters. The only reason he was alive was because his father tucked Dag into the hollowed-out trunk of a dying tree. Ironically enough, it fostered life, kept him sheltered, kept him... isolated. Father crept out of the den when he was absolutely certain Mother was fast asleep, snuck Dagwood into the den so he could nurse... nourish his mental, emotional development... grow. The deepest, darkest hours of twilight provided Dag with his only dose of parental bonding in his infancy. When he was too big to keep a secret, his big reveal didn't go all that well. His father had prepped him for meeting his mother beforehand, explaining her manic behavior in a way even a child could understand. He instructed Dagwood that he was to treat his mother as if she were a pufferfish, he explained it would take time to learn her triggers but reassured Dag he would do the best he could to teach him ways to keep from inflaming her temper and - for the sake of Father's metaphor - getting poked. 

    Dagwood's mother was a wildfire that turned his innocence to ash, his bones to dust with a spectrum of abuse - she was able to suck out his soul and replace it with those ghost of a scared little boy that cowered whenever someone raised their voice. She wanted him to know he was unwanted - that he was hated - but his father's love nearly made up for her horribleness. Nearly. Part of why Dagwood isn't a fan of introspection is the revelation that he would've been better off dying alongside his siblings as a helpless, blissfully ignorant, blind whelp. 

    One night, when his father had been beaten too senseless to stand and lie outside the den only partially conscious, Dagwood realized how weak he was without him. He paced back and forth, back and forth, glancing repeatedly at his father - a heaving mass of patchy fur and blood - until he couldn't anymore. He couldn't stand the sight of his suffering caregiver, his only refuge, and he couldn't stand the thought of having to endure another day of living in terror, suppression. He soldiered off towards the beach, marched into crashing waves. The salt burned his eyes but no more than they burned already, the whites of them red with infuration. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, keeping Dagwood focused on the task at hand, giving him a bit of gall for the first time in his life, though it was only enough to end it. Sooner than later, he'd been swallowed up by the waves, came up sputtering and coughing at first, but purposefully downed a salty mouthful... then another... fought the urge to struggle... and... finally... drowned. At least he thought he did.

    That's when he washed up on the shores of Anikira some days later. Dagwood doesn't know if his father's dead or alive - guilt eats at him most every night for abandoning him. Until he gets his bearings, there's no telling how he'll react to the unfamiliarity of his newfound home - Dagwood knows one thing, though, and it's that his mother can't reach him; that makes wherever he ended up a sanctuary in itself.

Personality: Beyond his calm exterior, Dagwood's a brew of bold, young testosterone; an ego-fueled manipulator with a sweet side that rears its head in the form of loyalty, respectfulness, and, generally, compassion. Perhaps it is others catching glimpses of their own reflections in Dag's dark eyes that, unbeknownst to him, convince them to open up to him; maybe it's his kind, trustworthy face; he's got a knack for pretending he cares about things he doesn't, but only promotes gainful conversation with those he finds interesting. Or beautiful. 

    Dagwood doesn't fall in love easily despite his romanticism, and his trust is hard to come by. He believes good friends - good people - are oases, providing a delightfully cold drink of temporary reassurance that he's not alone in this world; ultimately, these people turn out to be mirages; the ones that do stay, die.

    Dag travels often, finding it easiest to move through life without connections and the hassle that always seems to accompany maintaining them. He actively -however subconsciously - avoids the pain that would come from losing someone he deeply cared for.

    His silent confidence is as unshakable as a brick wall; Dagwood's not the type to throw his weight around or showboat his strength... doesn't mean it's not there; a sensitive beast lies dormant beneath undemonstrative features - not disturbed by elementary provocation - only by feeling threatened, activated by fear... a protective instinct.

    Exchanging compliments with strangers makes him uncomfortable; the wolf prides himself on his handsomeness and pure blood (prejudice, even, in the case of sub-species) but rarely ever spends time reflecting on himself, musing over his actions, or the things he says. He lives day-to-day, almost too forgiving of his own mistakes, allows his life to be driven by the instinct to wander. He's indoctrinated himself with the concept that if time won't wipe the slate clean for him, miles and miles put between him and his problems will. Dagwood aspires only to be a father - the overseer of a tractable family group - and works to ensure his future is as worry-free as can be, careful not to make enemies, but seemingly incapable of staying out of trouble. 


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