<strong>Player:</strong>Isengrad (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?action=pm;sa=send;u=10132)<br/><br/><div class="floatright">(https://static1.e621.net/data/sample/f8/e8/f8e85b6b47b503a2e5f8a63fd5c93df5.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Tyrel (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1716223)<br/><strong>Race:</strong>Ungulu Wild horse(Clydesdale)<br/><strong>Class:</strong>Mystic 2/Fighter 1<br/><strong>Age:</strong>32<br/><strong>Gender</strong>Male<br/><strong>Sexuality:</strong>Polysexual<br/><strong>On's:</strong>Domination, bondage, internal cum shots, lactation, chance of pregnancy, scratching and biting. Check players O/O<br/><strong>Off's:</strong>Hardcore rape(performing it), scat, gore<br/><br/><strong>Alignment/Personality:</strong>Neutral Good<br/>Tyrel is a man of nature, he would much rather sleep under the open sky than in some posh room, a simple man at heart he holds no need for luxury, places no stock in wealth or status save for it can get him what he needs. He is driven by the memory of his family, of his tribe that (for all he knows) he is the last surviving member.<br/><br/>A good man he tends to give of himself. To those he considers friends he is fiercely loyal, refusing to believe any hear-say unless it is from their lips alone. He is kind and though not to keen on social interaction tries his best to seek middle ground and make peace. All this hides a fierce wrath, for those that  wrong him or those he cares about will get back three fold of what they gave, he has a long memory and will see the reckoning through.<br/><br/><strong>Brief Bio:</strong><br/>The nomadic equine tribes of the west once roamed the plains near the no mans land, gathering and hunting the small game that lived near the cracked earth of that accursed stretch of land that lied beyond the border. They had a rite that young colts could go through in a path to becoming a warrior shaman for their people, gathering herbs that grew in secret places they would be used to unlock the potential of the young colts spirit, allowing him to wield his soul like a weapon. Tyrel was 18 when he underwent the rite, and when he emerged from the tent he was greeted like a hero. He still can not quite remember what he saw and experienced, but brief flashes of ancient creatures and lives past lived flash through his dreams from time to time.<br/><br/>He was 28 years old, and it was the solstice when his idyllic life as a honored warrior to his tribe was cut short. It was a time of celebration once more, when those that had come of age were welcomed into adulthood in the arms of those that came before them, they never saw the human horde coming. They were overrun, and Tyrel was swarmed by the agile fighters before he was brought down, bound and drugged to keep him from focusing his power. He was marched from his home with the few remaining survivors of his clan to the city of Arkandia, he was the only one to make it there alive.<br/><br/>He was sold to a noble woman who enjoyed keeping him nude, groomed, and drugged. When she or any member of her entourage saw fit they would avail themselves of him. There was one rule that she enforced, that no lasting harm would be done. For this he had a grudging respect for her, at least she wanted to keep her property in good keep. It was her son that was the sadist, over the years the young heir to her fortune would push the boundaries. Drawing blood, cutting deeper and using his talent with healing magic to remove any evidence of injury. Tyrel remembered though, and through the years the drugs would have less effect on him until soon enough he could focus enough to lash out against him. He did not kill him, but the wounds he left would remind the young noble of the slave that dared fight back. Tyrel gathered what he could, and by entering in service of a young wolfkin girl managed to garner passage to the city of Memphia, he purchased what he could with the gold taken from his torturer and hoped to make a new life as an escaped slave.