➳ Arrow ➳
Last Details | |
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Death Age | 8 years 0 months (Elder) |
Sex | Female |
Personality | Unknown |
Breeding Records | |
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Death Age in Rollovers | 192 |
Pups Bred | 26 pups bred |
Looks | |
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Base | Onyx (0.65%) |
Base Genetics | Monochrome Dark II |
Eyes | Yellow |
Skin | Black |
Nose | Bistre |
Claws | Black |
Mutation | None |
Secondary Mutation | None |
Carrier Status | Unknown |
Variant | Default |
Markings | |
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Slot 1 | Black Shepherd (100%) |
Slot 2 | Beige Underfur (100%) |
Slot 3 | Black Cross (100%) |
Slot 4 | Black Carnage (100%) |
Slot 5 | Black Shoulders (100%) |
Slot 6 | Beige Cape (100%) |
Slot 7 | Black Back Stripe (100%) |
Slot 8 | Black Half Mask (100%) |
Slot 9 | Beige Eyebrows (100%) |
Slot 10 | Beige Blaze (75%) |
Birth Stats | ||
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Strength | Speed | Agility |
Unknown | Unknown | Unknown |
Wisdom | Smarts | Total |
Unknown | Unknown | Unknown |
Birth Information | |
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Moon | Unknown |
Season | Unknown |
Biome | Unknown |
Biography
Next breed when 6y 3.5m (Instant birth)
Last heat 7y 1.5m
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Rumours brought her here, past these overgrown trails, following the disembodied melodies of something possibly... no… probably…. otherworldly.
Arrow is not sure where she came from, but she knows she only became aware of the trees around her not too long ago. She pads restlessly across the great expanse of land sensing she does not belong in this realm. It seems she’s searching for something, a doorway of sorts. She’s not sure she’ll know it even if she sees it. Only time will tell, she supposes.
The wolves of the harsh mountain peaks follow her, chasing some dream she doesn’t understand. Is she truly made of moonlight? The light of the stars seems to emanate from the fur along her back – she is their North Star, their compass.
But she is just as lost as they are.
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As Arrow approaches the end of her life she begins to hear the soft whispering of a sourceless voice. Her steps barely leave a mark in these darkening nights, she’s almost floating now. The other world is calling louder - singing, caterwauling, in the rush of tundra wind, beckoning her onwards. Upwards. Skywards.
Come home.
Yet the veil, ever thining, is still too thick to pierce.