PRINCE || [wip

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Basic Information

Name: Prince "Ruffles" Of Shion
Gender: Male
Orientation: Asexual
Birthdate:
Breed(s): Mixed with the DNA of a Chihuahua and Miniature Poodle
Variant: Basals
Mutation: Congenital [mother carried one blind and clouded black eye; carried down to Prince]
Played by: alee

Appearance

Height:
Build:
Description:

100 words or more

Personality

Skills:
Abilities:
Description:

100 words or more

History

Lineage:
Father: Name | Variant (Watchdog/Mutated) | Breed (optional) | alive/deceased (optional)
Mother: Name | Variant
Sibling(s):
Background:

"I love you."
Her words are soft, barely above a whisper even. Breath snags uncomfortably in her throat, and she nearly cows under his impressive gaze, his orbs, oh so golden, flaring with an almost amused curiosity. And he leans in, black nose brushing against her sensitive perked ears, he leans so close she can practically taste his breath, feel his heartbeat, and he whispers -
"Then allow me to return the favor, my dove."

--

Whistle loved him with all her heart and soul. From his impressive muscles rippling beneath a sheen brown pelt, and dark amber orbs striking a fearsome intimidation in even the toughest of foes. To Whistle, there was no other Basal like him; and as one of the same variant, the youthful fool could only take it as a sign heralding their destiny together.
The Canine went where only the wind would blow however; he was not one to be tied down, and in their brief courtship together, Whistle hadn't even the blessing of learning his name. One moment she was asleep at his side in a dusty alleyway, their breaths paced perfectly together - and the next she was waking up alone, the cold spot at her side so achingly empty it hurt.
When she felt the maternal stirrings of pups forming within her womb, Whistle finally found herself embracing the fact that to him, she'd been nothing more than a night of desire. Would he remember her in the coming years? Would one day he look back on the short period they spent together, and lament on how precious it had all been?
Most probably not. But alas, Whistle was a fool in love. You couldn't tell her so.

--

"You look so very like him."
It's cold; a bitter chill laces the air, painful and icy nips sending rippling shivers crawling up her spine. She's snuggled in a makeshift nest, of rotting boxes and torn scraps of newspaper; alone and without purpose, though perhaps that was just whom she was destined to be.
...No. Green eyes trail down to the form resting in her very crook. He might've been the spawn of a failed relationship, but he shares her blood, her curly fur, her small stature. She tucks him close, whispers sweet nothings into his perky ears; he utters a small whine in response, and the faintest hint of a smile pulls up at her maw.
He's beautiful.
He's hers.

--

She had no family, no pack. She lived on the outskirts of citizenship, a loner, untied to any rules or law. But that did not bother Whistle, no; for she was no longer alone on this arduous journey called life. She named her only son Ruffles, in reference to his curly black fur, and the way he'd puff up like a porcupine should she ever even dare teasing him on his comical appearance.
Ruffles was oh so proud, right from the get go. By the time his ears had unsealed, and he'd opened his eyes, he was constantly hammering Whistle with questions, and with ideas, silly ideas mind you, but so big for a brain as small as his. She'd joke constantly about how if he thought any bigger his head might pop!
As a puppy Ruffles was headstrong, reckless, and in many respects he still is nowadays. He desired nothing more than to protect his mother, and he attempted taking on the role of guardian within the small unit. Any passing fae would receive a volley of high-pitched yaps, utterances of empty threats and accusations of territorial trespass.

--

"Yeah, you better go running!" he squeals, a grin tugging at his lips as the dog in question strolls out of sight. "And don't you ever come back! This is mine and mama's land!"
His tail is whirring a million miles per minute. Even when Whistle returns from scavenging, horrified at the tale of his outburst, he still can't keep the smile from his maw. "Ruffles, this is serious," she chastised, fixing him with a stern glare; "that dog today mightn't have been aggressive. But what about tomorrow? Or the next? All it takes is one wrong, territorial male to walk by, and we're as good as dead."
"That's okay," he replies with a shrug, rasping a salmon pink tongue over his chipped paw pads. He hopes she can't see the hurt in his eyes; the pain at her disapproval of his so obvious courage. "I'll protect you from any big scary dog! I promise!"
"Ruffles! This isn't a joke!" The harshness edging her tone makes him flinch. "We are prime prey for the bigger, badder dogs of this city. Please...don't entice them. When I leave for hunting, you sit put. Okay?"
He meets her glare with a glowering scowl of his own.
"...Fine."

--

He kept his promise.
And all the while he stayed put, unflinching, true to his mother's word.
But her harsh orders had left him with a festering wound, pooling deep like poison liquid in the very pit of his belly. A joke, she'd said; he wasn't at all joking. They're dangerous, she'd warned; yeah, well, he was dangerous too!
And all the while, Whistle began to ail in her health. Pickings were harsh to come across; not to mention the birth had considerably weakened this fem. It wasn't long before a sickness had her clenched within its icy grasp, and each minute became a chore to trudge through; the few scraps of discarded food she'd find was hardly enough to line her stomach, and the small prey she'd manage to capture was scrawny, more bone than meat.
When Ruffles had reached three months old, she'd found herself bound to the confines of their alley. It was there that the young puppy finally had his chance.

--

"No."
"But ma-"
"I said no." There's a heavy, pregnant pause between the two, before Whistle finally shatters the silence, her tone now softer. "It's too dangerous, Ruffles. You'll get killed out there."
"I won't, I promise! I'm smart! I'm strong! And I'm really brave!"
A breathy snort of amusement escapes her nostrils. "You're about as small as a fly, too." Before he can wriggle away, she hooks a paw around his middle, and pulls him in for a hug. "You're my brave little man," she coos, despite the pummeling of irritated paws her chest is receiving; "but that's it. You're little...and you're brave. And sometimes, my dear, that's the worst kind of recipe for disaster."

--

For the first time in his very short life, Ruffles ignored her.
That night marked the first time he'd venture out alone; despite his confident persona, shuddering wracks rippled like a disturbed puddle down his flesh. He ran, out into the wide and open expanse of night, his tiny form a mere shadow compared to the looming and intimidating shapes that crowded in on him from all sides.
There were other dogs too; all so much larger than he, wreaking of his own rumbling hunger and desperation. After a stealthy few hour's wandering, he'd managed to haul back a maggot infested meat bone - slim pickings, but it was food nonetheless, and when Whistle awoke early that morning, he couldn't keep the confident pride off his countenance.

--

She's mad. She reeks of the emotion; rage rolls off her pelt in roiling waves, thick and murky to his sensitive nose. But he stands tall. He refuses to look down. He meets her fiery gaze, and takes control of the conversation.
"What's got your tail in such a twist? I got food, didn't I?"
For a moment she doesn't reply. Her nostrils flare, and he thinks, if he were a month younger, he'd actually be rather intimidated by now. But he's not the Ruffles from a few weeks ago; he's braved the outside world, and he thinks, huh, it's not as bad as she'd made it out to be. He juts out his chin, inviting her to retaliate.
But she does not snap. She merely sucks in a cold, deep breath - and falters. He's waiting for her venomous strike; he's waiting for an argument, hell, he wants one. But the fight has left her body. In its place, a cloudy exhaustion shields her green orbs, like mist sheltering the horizon.
"You're making a big mistake," is all she whispers. Then, with a ragged cough, she digs her fangs into the fleshy meat, and begins to feast.

--

He wanted to protect her.
And protect her he would.
His night time excursions would only heighten from here on out. Every adventure led him further beyond his usual boundaries; sometimes he'd stay out until the very cusp of dawn, content with sating his immeasurable desire for exploration. He met some dogs, also; though he was very picky with whom he chose to reveal himself too, having ofttimes observed them for quite a while before making his presence known.

--

"Hey, you!"
The shepherd looks up, curiosity alighting in her dark black eyes.
"Um...who's...there?"
"Ugh! Down here, fuzz brain!"
Her narrow face snaps down to the earth, where a black, fluffy chihuahua mix stands, his tail standing up, his muscles taught, and thin lips curled back into what she supposes must be a smile. Or a snarl. Though, in truth, he's not doing a very good job of it.
"I order you!" he promptly states, "to hand over that delicious meat!"
"Hrmm...this?" Already she's amused; a happy chuff escapes her maw, and she bats her delicious chunk of raw cattle from paw to paw, her eyes never once leaving the puppy before her. "Now tell me this - why should I give it to you?"
"Why?" He blinks, the fur around his nape settling, before he erupts into another volley of yaps. "Cause mama and I are hungry! And it's an order! That's why!"
"An order...Oh!" Suddenly she feigns a mocking gasp, pupils widening all the while. "You can't mean - are you the prince of this land?"
He pauses, head tipped to the side in thought, and quickly he says, "...yeah! What's a prince?"
"Someone of distinct royalty. A ruler, a leader, of sorts." She leans down to his eye level, a smile dancing upon her wide open maw. "You don't mean to tell me...you're the prince of this land?"
He grins in return, quite liking this title, and he can't resist an eager nod in response. "Of course! I'm the prince! And that's why you gotta give me all the meat!"
She can't hold it in any longer. She bursts into laughter, and it's a beautiful sound, a tinkle like the chime of bells to her melody. When she finally ebbs to a wheezy halt, she gives him a rather hard prod in the chest with her paw. "I like ya, kid! Here! Take it. You need it more than I do." With that she kicked the meat to him, and at once he was upon the delicious godsend, teeth dug deep as he pulls it back in the direction of home. "After all," she calls again, smiling slyly, "I wouldn't want to face the wrath of our Prince!"
Prince, he thinks. I like that name.

--

Word of the plucky pup spread fast. Soon many other street mutts could recognize his face; 'ey, Prince, they'd call, a sneer perverting their faces; what d'ya wanna scavenge t'day? There were many that made fun of this puppy; treated him as a joke, as a relief to their usually mundane routines. But then were those aptly taken by the tiny chihuahua; aw, it's Prince again, came their amused coos; what's the order from the trash can today? Meat, meat or more meat? And so it was that, for a brief time, Ruffles became a celebrity.
Ah, but Ruffles...that name was starting to sound less and less like his own. Regarded as Prince daily, upon returning to his mother he'd find himself jolted back to the reality by her use of the old name. And indeed, as time slowly trickled on in its usual relentless flow, the past Ruffles felt like nothing more than a distant dream.

--

She's happy. Furious with her foolish child, yes - but undeniably happy.
Meat lines her gut, and she rests with a comfortably full stomach. Before her sits Ruffles, and he's happy too, elatedly so; a sigh escapes her lips, one of contentment and relaxation. At the sound of his mother's peace, Ruffles can't resist a smirk.
"I'm still mad you know," she mumbles sleepily, peering at her only son under heavily lidded eyes. "What you're doing is...is very...very...fool-" A yawn breaks the sentence. He can't help himself. Ruffles laughs.
"Foolish, mama. Yep, I know. But that's me, right?" He throws her a playful smile. Rising to his paws, the small chihuahua pads forward, his gaze fixed on something beyond the horizon, something that his mother desperately wishes she could see. "But that's what gets us through the days. Sometimes, we gotta be foolish, y'know?"
Ah, where had that wisdom come from? Green pinpointed optics narrow. This time she cannot muster up the will to argue - but perhaps, in some strange, twisted way, he is right.
"Well..." she murmurs, "I can't argue with a full tummy now, can I, Ruffles?"
Ears twitch, but he does not spare her a glance. Something cold touches at the very depths of her chest; immediately she lifts her head from her paws, icy fingers of uncertainty beginning to tug at the corners of her heart. "Ruffles...? Is something wrong?"
The pause between them feels endless. Finally he replies, and she doesn't know why he sounds so solemn, but he does, and it stings like a needle to her eye. "...Call me Prince from now on."

--

Life seemed swell, for a few months after that. Prince grew to be six months old, his mother recovered from her illness and began to accompany him on trips outside the den - indeed, for this little chap, all was happy within the world he called his own.
Such happiness, however, can only last so long.
They're quaint little life met its end on a day like any other, when the dogs roamed in their thick swarms across the street, and the sun shone high overhead. Warmth sunk deep beneath his fur, gently brushing at his curly pelt, and as Prince and his mother returned with another strong haul, they made an encounter that would forever change the course of their fates.

--

"I was surprised," she murmurs mildly, her voice muffled around a thick slab of liver. Slowly, too slowly, they drag their food back to their nests; many watch from the sidelines, curious, salivating, and at times they share bits and pieces of their quarry, much to the elation of the other struggling mutts. Now, under the blaring light of the afternoon sun, they trekk through the sticky humidity, throats dry, paw pads clammy. Swallowing the last of her saliva, Whistle adds, "they really do like you, Prince. Can't imagine why, but..."
He butts shoulders with his mother, unable to form a reply of his own around a small packet of chips sealed tightly in his jaws.
Whistle smiles. Her son was a tough one to deal with - but he practically radiated with an innocent like charm, and perhaps that is what draws the strays so kindly to him. As much as he wouldn't appreciate her saying so, it wasn't his contemptuous bragging, or courageously comical demands that drew the crowd - it was that one born into a world so deprived could maintain such a bright spirit and cheer.
She's proud of him, in that moment. So very, very proud of him.
They turn into their alley, relieved at the coolness of the shade swamping their forms, when a rumbling growl jolts them from their reverie.
He's large - so, so large, a form built of taught muscle and tightly wrapped sinew, bead black eyes deep imbued within a narrow, black and tan face. His shadow looms like a mountain over the two, and when he steps forward, it's almost as if the ground shakes; a sheen pelt ripples with every poised step, a nub of a tail twitches in barely repressed irritation. She drops her chunk of meat. She glances over at Prince, to warn him to do the same.
But he's already done so. And he's stepping forward, and staring straight into the soulless eyes of the dog before him; he responds to his growl with a barrage of squeaky yaps, and when he snarls, he retaliates with his own. She's melting inside, oh she's melting, terror pools at the pit of her stomach, and she wants to blanch, wants to scream, wants to warn and protect and scold the foolishness of her child -
"Well, well." His voice is slippery, tinged with a hint of menace that only she seems to notice. "I can't believe it. So the rumors were true, eh?" He pads forward, and he doesn't stop until he's nose to nose with Prince, until he's pushing the tiny dog back with a mere tilt of his powerful head. None move; quietness reigns supreme once more.
"This is it?" She jolts, the sound of his voice cracking like a whip through the eerie silence. "This lil chew toy? He's what's got the mutts all in awe?" There's scorn in his voice, and she knows what he's about to do, but she's too slow, much to slow, as silver glinted fangs snap open, Prince lunges forward, and he's knocked, hard to the side; there's a strangled yelp; he hits the wall hard, an anguished huff escapes his nostrils as he grumbles to the barren earth, and the doberman is snickering, he's relishing in the site, as if he's just found the funnest of games.
Maternal instinct takes over. Rage blinds her vision, fogs up her mind; she's running, she's leaping, teeth find the soft, fleshy skin of his neck, and she feels a rush of satisfaction as a pained yelp fills the air. But it's gone all too soon; black fur swirls and twirls until it becomes hard concrete. There's a sickening crack, a thud, a cry from her son, and she wants nothing more than to be by his side, to whisper comfort into his ears -
A hefty paw slams down upon her skull. "Pathetic," he growls, so close to her ear now she can practically taste his rank breath. "Perhaps you'll like to be my next squeaker toy. Hmm? We can chew on you all day long. Ah, what fun it shall be!" She shudders as another paw is placed atop her head, pressure slowly beginning to build; blood mixes with the saliva mingling in her mouth, turning her taste metallic, a dull ache ripples down from her brain to her spine. There's a small, frightened yap.
"M-Mama!"
"Hmm...right." The doberman finally relaxes his paws. She wants to gasp for air as the relief streams like a river through her body; but all too soon it's replaced by another sharp pain. There's a pull at the soft skin of her neck and she's thrust up, dangling between the piercing jaws of her captor.
"You want your mummy, kid?" he mumbles, between a mouthful of fur; tauntingly he begins to swing. "C'mon. Come get her. You're tough, right?"
She cracks open glassy green eyes. He's there - she sees him. Struggling to his paws. Her vision blurs; a mess of colors meld and dance where he once stood, like a failed painting and she thinks, no, let me see him again, one last time.
Please.

--

The doberman was leader of a small gang of rancid street mutts, escapees of a dog fighting arena. There men and woman alike had placed bets on vicious bites between the mongrels; blood, cruelty and pain was the hand they were dealt, and now it was all they had to offer the world.
Outside was like a giant playpen to them, in many respects; when the arena had closed down in a bust, the ensuing chaos had allowed him to seize his chance. Along with four others, they'd leaped into the night. Raised on bones and drugs, they now knew naught from right or wrong; from sick and normal. Anger festered like an injection in their hearts, and it only twisted and grew as they saw the cruelty of humans, the stupidity of the mutts whom lay at their feet like loyal lapdogs.
Yes. They hated this world with a burning passion.
And they sought to vent their toxicity in any way possible.
Existing only for the purpose of suffering.

--

"Stop!"
His voice rings louder than he'd ever expected. Before he realizes it he's running, paws pounding hard against the concrete, and he leaps. He doesn't expect the pain snapping across his jawline like electricity; doesn't expect the ground to rush up to meet him. The breathe crashes from his lungs. He heaves, for the briefest of moments unable to breathe; for the first time in his life there's a bolt of real fear jolting through his bones, masked by not even a weak persona of confidence. He's vulnerable, he's real, and he's so, so afraid.
"L...Let her go," comes his wheeze. Two other dogs emerged from the shadows, cackling with amusement. The lead Doberman cocks his head in mock disinterest, leaning forward ever so slightly.
"What was that?" he says, a small smile tugging at his maw.
"Leave her...leave her alone!"
"I'm sorry! I couldn't quite catch that. Again?" He's so close now, every snort of breath he exhales billowing before Prince's face. Prince draws in another desperate gasp for breath.
"Please..." A cough breaks his sentence. "Please, I - I'm begging you!"
"Hmm...what to do, what to do..." He pulls back, Whistle still hanging limply from his jaws, her sides motionless, and there it is again, that raw, powerful twist of fear that strangles the remaining air from his lungs. Prince struggles to his paws; when a scarlet drop of blood splashes upon the concrete, he pays it no mind. He limps forward, adrenaline surging him onward. There's another cruel chuckle from the three dogs. The leader at once allows his mother to drop to the ground. She doesn't even twitch an eyelid.
"Looks like we found a new squeaker toy," the leader coos, pacing forward. "Come on, squeaker toy. Squeak for us!"
And now he's struggling back as they slowly, agonizingly advance, and he vaguely hears himself uttering some hushed apology, some pleading nonsense that falls only upon death ears. His breath comes in ragged, torn gasps.
Wide orbs squeeze shut.
There's a snarl, a lunge - he waits for a rippling of pain, anticipates a yelp to escape his maw -
There's a long, terrifying pause.
Prince cracks open one eye.

--

Fate has a strange way of playing. Sometimes it leads one to their inevitable, painful demise - and then for a few lucky others, at the very cusp of a rancid end, it twists the strings for its own enjoyment. Prince was one of the lucky ones; fate shone upon him that day, and with a fanciful twirl, it intervened in all its destined glory.
Looking back on the memory, all Prince can recall are rippling snarls; a deep flash of red, pained yips and a rushed exchange of words. A body fell limp to the earth. Bite wounds pierce the flesh around his neck. A blur of black and tanned pelts; the leader's voice ordering a retreat. And then?
Darkness.
Swallowing, empty, unending darkness.
Its walls echoing with a strong voice, a voice that reeked of false promise; "it's alright kid. You're safe now."

...

"Everything will be alright."

--

He awakes to the smell of meat.
At once his belly responds with an enthusiastic growl. Black smudged ears perk; for a small, wonderful moment he thinks he is home, with his mother in the dusty alleyway, feasting on a thick slab of sheep's hide. The thought swells at his heart; paws stretch out, a yawn breaks apart his muzzle, and he's about to call a good morning to Whistle, when suddenly he freezes to a halt.
The memories rush back to him in a painful jolt. All too soon his legs buckle; almond shaped eyes widen beyond belief, his chest trembles in silent, wracking sobs.
The last vision he has is of Whistle's limp body, unflinching, eyes as glassy as the clearest of ponds.
"Hrm...you're awake, eh?"
The voice is rough and callous. Glancing up, his vision snags the stocky grey form of a pit bull. A broad chest forms the majority of this husking mass of muscle; dark eyes are set deep in a flattened skull, and a smudged nose presses sharp against his countenance. Prince didn't even have the energy to growl. All he could muster was a small, pathetic, "...please. Bring her back."
The pit bull does not reply for a long time; seconds drag on painfully slow, the only sound the constant drip-drop of water leaking from the roof. When finally the pit bull grasps onto a reply, his words are almost soft and mournful, a stark contrast to his heavily scarred, vicious appearance. "Many young pups lose their mothers early in this world. I understand your pain. Truly, I do."
His words only entice anger from Prince; he stumbles back onto his paws, takes a few shaky steps forward, his breath ripping painfully at his throat. "I didn't ask for your sympathy," he chokes, and already images of his mother are swirling before his mind's eye; memories of her strength, her kindness, her bold sense of will. He misses her smell, her smile, her gentle voice, and yes, he even misses her lectures, the way she scolds him for hours upon hours on end even when she's aware he's hardly listening.
He wishes he listened now.
He wishes he savored every last drop of her company.
There's a brush of fur; the pit bull is at his side, dark eyes fixed upon the small chihuahua. Prince feels his anger melt into a puddle of crashing, painful realization.
"I...I promised," he squeaks, his voice barely above a whisper; "I promise I'd...protect her."
"Some promises are destined to be broken."
He looks away, shame knotting in his chest. He really is just a chihuahua, isn't he? A useless, yappy, annoying little mutt, that couldn't even fight when his family needs him most. Instead he had cowered, like the pathetic individual he'd been born to be.
They rest in silence for what feels like days, though it can't have been more than a few minutes. It is then that the pit bull rises to his paws, murmurs something about how he'll need his alone time, and sulks away. Prince wants to beg him to stay; he wants to wail at his paws and release all the pain that he is feeling. Alas, the words catch like thorns in his throat. He merely watches as the large dog slides under a gaping hole in the wall, and disappears from sight.

--

The pit bull's name was Blade.
An intimidating name, far stronger than that of the title 'Prince' could ever be. He'd been the one to kill a Doberman follower; he'd been the dog to rescue Prince from the clutches of death. Was this really a good thing, however? As he lay in his bed that night, tucked in the dripping dampness of an abandoned warehouse, was survival really something he should've been happy about?
She'd died, right before his eyes; his own mother, tossed and thrown and pummeled like a dirty little rat. And he'd done nothing. He'd simply watched, a sniveling, cowering weakling. The thought made him sick to his very stomach.
For a month he wallowed in his grief, rightfully so. For a month he remained in that warehouse, alone, save for the rather awkward older company of Blade, whom popped in every now and then with his freshest garbage haul. The two completely different dogs established an awkward relationship, one built on the foundations of chipped, mournfully small talk; it was clear that they weren't entirely comfortable around the other, and as such, they seemed to avoid each whenever possible.
That is, until one fateful night.

--