Love isn't soft like the poets say. Love has teeth which bite, and the wounds never close. - Stephen King

Meet Gnash

Stallion - 15hh - Unknown
A wandering cryptid, who spends his days weaving through blackened trees and foggy graveyards. Few can say they know him, and fewer still can say they understand him. But one there's one thing everyone can agree on... the intensity of his presence.

There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand. - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

At a Glance

Intense
Gnash has presence. He looms, he stares, he watches.
Somber
Gnash's face never shifts, despite the intensity behind his eyes.
Quiet
Gnash speaks very rarely, and few know what he sounds like.
Obessesive
Gnash has a tendancy to fixate, especially on animals.
Likes
  • Quiet Company
  • Gnawing Bones & Sticks
  • The Dark
Dislikes
  • Being Alone
  • Crows
  • Crowded Areas
Physical Description
Gnash is tall, gangly, and imposing. His frame is lean, but he's big boned, lending weight to his prescence. His eyes are deep crimson, with unsettling black sclera. His gaze is piercing and unblinking, following the target of his attention intently. His markings form a line of sharp white teeth that trail down to his tail, extending the outline of his mouth into enormous maw. his own jaws are lined with oddly sharp teeth, and blue-grey gums. His mane and feathers grow long and wild, adding to his unkempt appearance.

Free-a small word for such a magnificent thing. I don't know what it feels like, but I want to find out. ― Victoria Schwab, Gallant

In Depth

Gnash is a friend to nobody,
but not for any lack of desire. He, in fact, may have a bit too much of it.
Behind his gangly, menacing exterior, lurks a lonely mind. But his many years of isolation have served his social graces poorly. Gnash has a tendancy to fixate on new things, often animals, and especially other equids.
But, what then? He does not know how to approach, nor what to say - nor what he'd want from them, if he did. So he stares. He follows from a distance, a silent shadow full of teeth, watching something he cannot understand.
Is he even an equid? He's unsure. Others are even less certain. But he knows that they're the most similar creature to him that he has seen.
And so, he follows.
Any creature that travels through Gnash's normal haunts is likely to feel his eyes on their back. He can be hard to spot, lurking in the distance, but his presence is always felt.
He will only leave his home range in pursuit of his current fascination, taking days or sometimes weeks to lose interest. Creatures that run will often lose him - he doesn't give chase, only wanders slowly along after. If confronted, he mirrors his obsession's demeanor - so approaching kindly is wise.

If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being. should be wretched. - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

His Myth

Nobody knows where Gnash came from.
One day, he simply was.
He awoke on the dusty, dead, ground; below a stand of blackened pine trees. He was alive, and he was alone. He spent his early days wandering through the forest, encountering scarcely little life. A crow here, a starving rat there. He gnawed the blackened branches of trees, and the dried bones of rats. He felt no hunger, only emptiness.
Then, he saw a flock of crows together. They squawked, they squabbled. They preened each other.
Gnash felt something stir within his emptiness.
What was this? He didn't know - but he wanted it for himself.
He didn't understand it, but he needed to. He approached the crows, and they scattered, jeering at him as they dissapeared into the trees.
The feeling twisted, becoming hot and painful. He reared, and screamed to the sky, drowning out the sound of the mocking crows. His call echoed through the trees before fading into still silence once more.
Still filled with fire and bees, he stalked through the dead forest once more. He heard the sound of grinding teeth in the brambles ahead. His pace quickened. A rat. Something to fill his void. The gnawing fell silent, but he knew where it had come from. He stuck a hoof into the thorns, and the rat leapt from the other side, skittering away.
Not again,
He thought, desperation coursing through him.
He lunged after it, teeth grasping it by the neck. There was a crunch between his teeth, and the rat hung limply from his mouth. He lay it softly down on the ground, and sniffed at it. Something had changed. He... had made something change. He stepped back. This was not what he wanted. This could not give what he wanted, anymore.
He backed away, turned away, left.
Clearly, he did not understand... but he had to. And so, he follows.

Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym. ― Stephen King

I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein: The 1818 Text

Play the Game

Something is amiss in the peaceful fields of Jensen Acres... will you be the one to solve the mystery? Play the game here This game is playable on all devices; however, is best experienced on desktop