DominoHorsey
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The Man...
A little info about Rion, he is 6 ft 8", fairly well muscled, and not to be modest, pretty fun, while also being shy. He considered himself fairly charismatic. Very well groomed, his mane done in a number of braids, polished hooves, though he now walks around naked most of the time, as he did when he ran with his herd; his fur was rough to the touch, as if the desert had left its mark upon him. He had worn cloths to comply with social norms, but at the urging of a pet, he started to walk around naked, only wearing a wide cowboy hat, and his polished, notched gun belt. When in bars requiring cloths, he simply wears a pair of fancy polished, brown leather chaps. He looked nothing fancy himself though, being more a mix of hard rough cowboy and their mount from old westerns than anything else. If you feel him closely, in addition to his muscles, you can feel a number of knife wounds scars, and bullet scars on a fair amount of his body under his fur. The color changes of hair commonly associated with scars is hidden by his dappled hide.
The Legend...
Rion was born into a herd of mustangs, like most of his kind. They lived hard, off the land, ranging wherever they needed, led by a powerful stallion. At a tender age Rion became to be known as one of the better gunsman, if not the best shoot of his herd. He could do all sorts of trick shooting, even finding himself known across the plains. Alas he was also cocky, and headstrong. The strong leader of their pack took him under his wing and tried to teach him to be a champion of the code of the west. Rion dove into it, learning the basics of leading the herd, how to treat a proper lady, and what was right and wrong. However as arrogant as he was, he thought he would be the better leader. He should be the alpha stallion. He challenged the kind and just leader for dominance, at much too young an age.
For all his marksmanship abilities, he lost decisively. The stallion refused to take his life, but by the law of his herd, he was exiled for his impudence. He became to his current shame, a gun for hire. He traveled the west, drinking, gambling, and killing as he grew into adulthood, spending over a decade in this life. He would kill a man for 20$, shoving the pain deep down where he was honestly a good stallion trying to bury it. His belt is notched 14 times, one for each human and fur he killed in a gunfight. He killed them for just reasons some, others right reasons, and more often for a simple insult that could have otherwise been forgotten, or a challenge easily ignored, some even for money.
He became a lone ranger on the desert, drifting from place to place, growing more disgusted with himself. After he had nearly fallen beyond any sort of redemption, he heard a rumor that the legendary demigod of a cowboy Pecos Bill was in town. Rion kicked in the doors of the tavern and recognizing the legend on sight challenged him to a showdown at dusk. The legend simply nodded, used to the presumption of youth. He was ancient though looking no older then 30, the desert granting him eternal life, as the god of the west.
As he stepped into the street as sundown, he knew his life was over. He relished it. He watched as Pecos conferred with his horse Widowmaker, another legend of the savanna, before the man stepped into the center of the lane. He stood 50 ft from the man, the god; a cowboy able to lasso tornadoes themselves and ride them across the desert, and he shuddered surrendering himself to his fate. “Draw!" was called out to the side, and as he started to pull his gun out, he watched the other's revolver already pointed at him, with speed unimaginable explode. Rion's gun exploded in a shower of sparks and fell uselessly to the ground. With a cry, Domino ripped his knife out and charged, only making it a step before that two was blown from his hand, a third shot punching into his right knee an instant later taking him to the ground.
Tears filling his eyes, Rion groaned and bit the ground, crying for all his evil acts, not begging forgiveness or mercy from his better, but from that of those he had hurt and the gods themselves; his life ran across his eyes as he braced himself for it to end. A click came from a cylinder rotating in place above him. “Look boy," he heard, “I have no problem filling you with lead here and now, but Widowmaker has an offer for you. He don't normally ask for much, so I owe him this, don't make me regret it." He said, a hammer cocking back punctuating his remark.
The black stallion of stallions approached, Rion in awe of the horse that could run faster than the wind simply stared, tears still running freely from his eyes. “I know there is hurt in your boy," Widowmaker said to him, “a hurt I understand from long ago, but I know too that there is greatness in you, and you could be a better horse for it. You could bring good to many a fur if you let yourself feel a little, as you are starting to again. I want you to come with us, learn from us to let go, to forgive, to love again. Please will you do that Rion?" The horse nickered to him, Pecos standing behind; his gun's barrel smoking. Rion nodded, and stood slowly. He followed them into the desert night, and into the analog of history.
He followed them across the desert many times, ceasing to age himself. He learned to be a marksman without equal among mortals, thought by the lone gunman. He also learned a new lifestyle. In their tutelage over many years, he only added 3 notches to his belt, all just and within the laws of the old west. He learned never to draw in anger, or hate, even going so far as to swear to never even to protect his own life. He would only ever from that point on draw iron to protect friends and loved ones. He wore his belt as a reminder of his past, and what never to repeat. He continued to uphold the code of the west and the code of chivalry seen in a southern gentlefur. One day he walked out of the desert, taking a single step. He was in Canada, in a new world, years, decades; even centuries had gone by without his notice.
From here he started to live a normal life. He bought a ranch, and you can find him with all the other furs. He is a more tempered beast now. Caring and loving, even cheerful. He still treats women folk and children with utmost respect, (In sex, it could be different, but that was more an act of primal urges, not every day life.)
Still, he was a kind and caring fur now. He let things lie, and did not fret the things he could not change. He wandered the world over for a time which eventually brought him to meet his soulmate.
A little info about Rion, he is 6 ft 8", fairly well muscled, and not to be modest, pretty fun, while also being shy. He considered himself fairly charismatic. Very well groomed, his mane done in a number of braids, polished hooves, though he now walks around naked most of the time, as he did when he ran with his herd; his fur was rough to the touch, as if the desert had left its mark upon him. He had worn cloths to comply with social norms, but at the urging of a pet, he started to walk around naked, only wearing a wide cowboy hat, and his polished, notched gun belt. When in bars requiring cloths, he simply wears a pair of fancy polished, brown leather chaps. He looked nothing fancy himself though, being more a mix of hard rough cowboy and their mount from old westerns than anything else. If you feel him closely, in addition to his muscles, you can feel a number of knife wounds scars, and bullet scars on a fair amount of his body under his fur. The color changes of hair commonly associated with scars is hidden by his dappled hide.
The Legend...
Rion was born into a herd of mustangs, like most of his kind. They lived hard, off the land, ranging wherever they needed, led by a powerful stallion. At a tender age Rion became to be known as one of the better gunsman, if not the best shoot of his herd. He could do all sorts of trick shooting, even finding himself known across the plains. Alas he was also cocky, and headstrong. The strong leader of their pack took him under his wing and tried to teach him to be a champion of the code of the west. Rion dove into it, learning the basics of leading the herd, how to treat a proper lady, and what was right and wrong. However as arrogant as he was, he thought he would be the better leader. He should be the alpha stallion. He challenged the kind and just leader for dominance, at much too young an age.
For all his marksmanship abilities, he lost decisively. The stallion refused to take his life, but by the law of his herd, he was exiled for his impudence. He became to his current shame, a gun for hire. He traveled the west, drinking, gambling, and killing as he grew into adulthood, spending over a decade in this life. He would kill a man for 20$, shoving the pain deep down where he was honestly a good stallion trying to bury it. His belt is notched 14 times, one for each human and fur he killed in a gunfight. He killed them for just reasons some, others right reasons, and more often for a simple insult that could have otherwise been forgotten, or a challenge easily ignored, some even for money.
He became a lone ranger on the desert, drifting from place to place, growing more disgusted with himself. After he had nearly fallen beyond any sort of redemption, he heard a rumor that the legendary demigod of a cowboy Pecos Bill was in town. Rion kicked in the doors of the tavern and recognizing the legend on sight challenged him to a showdown at dusk. The legend simply nodded, used to the presumption of youth. He was ancient though looking no older then 30, the desert granting him eternal life, as the god of the west.
As he stepped into the street as sundown, he knew his life was over. He relished it. He watched as Pecos conferred with his horse Widowmaker, another legend of the savanna, before the man stepped into the center of the lane. He stood 50 ft from the man, the god; a cowboy able to lasso tornadoes themselves and ride them across the desert, and he shuddered surrendering himself to his fate. “Draw!" was called out to the side, and as he started to pull his gun out, he watched the other's revolver already pointed at him, with speed unimaginable explode. Rion's gun exploded in a shower of sparks and fell uselessly to the ground. With a cry, Domino ripped his knife out and charged, only making it a step before that two was blown from his hand, a third shot punching into his right knee an instant later taking him to the ground.
Tears filling his eyes, Rion groaned and bit the ground, crying for all his evil acts, not begging forgiveness or mercy from his better, but from that of those he had hurt and the gods themselves; his life ran across his eyes as he braced himself for it to end. A click came from a cylinder rotating in place above him. “Look boy," he heard, “I have no problem filling you with lead here and now, but Widowmaker has an offer for you. He don't normally ask for much, so I owe him this, don't make me regret it." He said, a hammer cocking back punctuating his remark.
The black stallion of stallions approached, Rion in awe of the horse that could run faster than the wind simply stared, tears still running freely from his eyes. “I know there is hurt in your boy," Widowmaker said to him, “a hurt I understand from long ago, but I know too that there is greatness in you, and you could be a better horse for it. You could bring good to many a fur if you let yourself feel a little, as you are starting to again. I want you to come with us, learn from us to let go, to forgive, to love again. Please will you do that Rion?" The horse nickered to him, Pecos standing behind; his gun's barrel smoking. Rion nodded, and stood slowly. He followed them into the desert night, and into the analog of history.
He followed them across the desert many times, ceasing to age himself. He learned to be a marksman without equal among mortals, thought by the lone gunman. He also learned a new lifestyle. In their tutelage over many years, he only added 3 notches to his belt, all just and within the laws of the old west. He learned never to draw in anger, or hate, even going so far as to swear to never even to protect his own life. He would only ever from that point on draw iron to protect friends and loved ones. He wore his belt as a reminder of his past, and what never to repeat. He continued to uphold the code of the west and the code of chivalry seen in a southern gentlefur. One day he walked out of the desert, taking a single step. He was in Canada, in a new world, years, decades; even centuries had gone by without his notice.
From here he started to live a normal life. He bought a ranch, and you can find him with all the other furs. He is a more tempered beast now. Caring and loving, even cheerful. He still treats women folk and children with utmost respect, (In sex, it could be different, but that was more an act of primal urges, not every day life.)
Still, he was a kind and caring fur now. He let things lie, and did not fret the things he could not change. He wandered the world over for a time which eventually brought him to meet his soulmate.