Eternal has been a wonderful and magical place for many of us to write creatively with those we care for most. Unfortunately, as with all good things, it must eventually come to an end. That end is now. For the past year, Eternal has been a safe haven for open creativity, community, and fun, with like-minded individuals and incredible friendships. Alas, the sun has come and set, and will rise no more. Eternal is closed, indefinitely. Please collect your coding tables, profile information, and anything personal from the site. The site will be permanently shut down on February 1st. The boards are no longer open for posting, but all can still be accessed. This is not goodbye - it is merely "until we meet again". We are out there in the community, writing, celebrating friendship and the incredibly complex, intricately woven stories we've all created with the characters we so love. Please consider our affiliates (Fimbulvetr, Caeleste, Novus) to continue your incredible stories, or join us at Ourania.

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the she-bear

26 Posts
5 Threads
15 hh
Ursine Physiology (Grizzly)
[T2 - Beginner]



Atalanta is unassuming in height, 15 hh if even. But she exudes an air of power and agility—a wildness that is raw and startling. Savage. She is lithe, yet sinewy, with strong, straight legs and an angular, utilitarian frame. She is an earthy, reddish bay, her legs dark up to the elbows and hips; her body is marked with sparse, minimal patches of white, and four blotchy, odd white socks. Here and there, on her back, and the base of her tail, are patches of moss that had taken hold on her as a baby and woven themselves into her being.


Hr head is plain and straight, not overly refined or coarse. It is not ugly, but not is it terribly remarkable save for the striking, asymtrical white that forks mid way over the bridge. Atop are a pair of plain antlers, a couple snapped tines telling tale of her barbarity. They are adorned here and there with moss. On one of her antlers hangs a bear's claw on a thin peice of vine..


Atalanta's eyes are savage and bright, pale, mossy-green with a slightly darker green pupil set in the center. They shine with a ferocity that can be rather off-putting.


Atalanta has the countenance of a feirce huntress—strong and limber, quiet and stalking—a predator, through-and-through. There is a wild beauty about her, but so is there a danger, something keenly savage.


Atalanta was born in the savage hinterlands to a warrior tribe—a rugged, patriarchial society that prided itself in the rearing of strong men. As a filly, she was left out in the forest to fend for herself or, more likely, meet death to expose or predation. She did not, however, die. The filly was taken in by a greif-stricken grizzly bear sow, recently separated from her cubs by the spears of hunters, the bear took the filly in and nursed her.

She was feral, feirce and willful, shedding only some of that to maturity, as she became a brutal and skillfull hunter, learning from her mother all the things she might have teached her cubs—all the things she could, for, of course, those equine teeth and prey's jaw did not lend themselves to the meals. Atalanta took to trophies, pelts and antlers, though none of these things she wore without respect. She is earthy, her mind unadorned with any myticism or religion.She is practical and spartan, though not one for civilized things.

In a hut of interwoven trees, made sticky-hot by a cleansing fire, a maiden mare labors. Long and hard, alone, for this is a woman's thing—sequestered in the messiness and agony of her function, she will bring new life into the world unattended. Though it is not easy, it is natural. She grunts, stiffening with every contraction that urges the previously unknown muscles of her abdomen to push. With a wet squelch, the pressure releases, the product of her efforts slipping between her thighs and onto the dirt. Unceremonious. But this is no place for ceremony. When she can, she gets up, careful not to step on the baby, shivery and ribby beneath her hooves.

"Ura," she lifts her gaze, following the gutteral grunt of her name to a large, bay stallion, wolf pelt slung across his back, snarling eternally. He looks at her with hard, expectant eyes. She does not reply, her lips shifting back and forth in contemplation.

Ura shakes her head, finally, a single gesture that speaks a million words for her silence. "Ah. Pity," the chief mutters, "There is always next time."

Quietly, in their returned loneliness together, she names her Atalanta.

She grows up. The filly becomes strong, for she has value only if she is strong. In this period of childishness, she is allowed to be endeared to her father, and he to her. Though he holds her at arm's length, there is something about her that softens him—something as surprising as it is dangerous, for a man is his position. Soon, from far and wide, men come to bargain for her.

This is her fate. She will bring him a young woman in return, or perhaps a young boy to mentor; an alliance that will secure some thin peace for a time.

As they leave, dragging mares in chains behind them, the chief grows weary, for himself, and for his daughter. There is no kindness in this life—there is nothing he is willing to do to carve her a better lot. This is beyond him. But he can release her.

From Ura's side, he secrets the filly away, tottering and mouthing baby words by her father's side. Deep into the forest they plunge, far off hunting paths and into the wilderness until the night has grown fat and dark. "Here," he grunts, stopping in a thicket of blackberry bushes, "sleep" he commands, and in no time she does, having been drained by the hike. He waits long enough to ensure she will not wake—not long enough to second-guess his decision, before he leaves, letting the stars guide him back through the meandering woods.

When the filly wakes up, she is alone. Panic lights up her mind, she scrambles to find those over-long legs their purchase, pushing herself up. She has no instinct to survive, only the instinct to find her mother. She nickers desperately into the morning, stumbling and shivering through the alien trees. The sickening sounds of her own voice return to her, and the muffled, heavy snapping of twigs nearby. Atalanta squirms, turns, and quakes. Something from within urged her to lay down, flatten herself until she becomes earth and stone. Before she can struggle to her knees a deep, savage bellow cuts the silence like an arrow ripping flesh. She squeals, frozen stiff the hulk of brown fur and small, black eyes slips from the forest, its large, wet nose sniffing the air.

The beast stands on its hind legs, its lips lolling as it releases another short bellow, coming down with a thud that knocks the air from Atalanta's breath, and her spindly legs in a knot below her. It pads towards her, its paws the size of her head, with claws curved and bark-sharpened, the sow moves around her, sniffing and nudging her body with her nose.

The she-bear stays, sitting down before the shaking Atalanta, grunting and napping lazily. In time, the bear grows hungry, she nudges the filly firmly, and as if on command, she gathers herself onto her feet. They march through the woods until the sow finds a berry patch to pick at. Finally, when she is full, she lays down on her back.

Soehow, the filly understands. She totters forwards, cautious, her nose running along the belly fur until she meets a nipple, latching on, she feeds.

She grew up in the dense forests and open valleys, swimming in cold streams thick with salmon as her mother-bear fished. She learned to help her mother hunt, taking to the pelts and trophies left behind. She became wild and strong, tempered by the feral hunters and wanders that taught her the common tongue and how to be a horse when she needed to be.

One day, as she stalked a deer with a tracker, learning to read prints in the dry ground, the forest erupted with a great cacophony. It was not unlike things she had heard before, but this was different. She knew that voice, that deep, low bellow. "Mother," she muttered, racing through the forest, whipped bloody by branches until she found her. Heaving in a clearing, arrows and broken spears dotting her massive body. "No," Atalanta knelt down, tears stinging her eyes. Foam, pink with blood, gathered on mother-bear's lips. "No."

She had watched life leave before. It does so with a long, strangled breath. Then a vacancy comes that makes the concept of a soul almost undeniable.

Anger fills her veins, hot and savage. She waits long enough to ease a toe from mother-bear's paw, pushing back the fur and stringing it onto a tine of an antler. A token of survival, and love and loss. Vengance.

Tier 1:

ABILITY NAME: Grizzly Bear Physiology
LEVEL: Beginner
DESCRIPTION: This is the ability to shift into a grizzly bear and attain their traits. Chosen animal cannot be humanoid, but it can be mythical..
OBTAINED: July 7, 2018 [Fall, Year 2] - blessed by Aya
NOTES: At the beginner level, the user will fatigue greatly after prolonged use and will fall subject to migraines and nosebleeds if overexerted. Manipulations will not last for a prolonged period of time but will be controllable. The user will experience a few of the enhanced senses attributed to their shifted species, but not to the same level as the true animal.

Tier 2:


Tier 3:


Cosmetic Effects:


Immediate Family:


Lovers & Kin:


Companionship & Rivalry:

ACQUAINTANCE(S): Khumba, Killdare, Aya, Scarlet, Takhar

Companion Animal:

Atalanta has written 26 posts. (0.13 posts per day | 0.56 percent of total posts) (Find All Posts)
Atalanta has made 5 threads. (0.02 threads per day | 0.37 percent of total threads) (Find All Threads)
Birthday: 03-24-1992 (26 years old)
Linked Accounts:

Caeleste - Fantasy Equine RPG the Rift
Baraenor, Lion RP Top Equine Roleplay Games
Original coding base by Gotham's Reckoning at Necessary Evil. Subsequent coding by Krys.
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