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Chaos is a rough cut stallion of giant proportions. He usually sits with a pencil thoughtfully clenched
between his flat teeth and a notebook in his lap so he can jot down ideas for stories, homework and settings he
is usually thinking up. The large horse will occasionally look around the room and engage in conversation, but he's always a bit distant, separating himself from the rest of the community
with unsettling ease, his eyes darkening at times, hinting at a turmoil to match his namesake.
The first thing one notices about another is their physical stature, and most will follow this trend when
noticing an equine of his...size. The horse, when standing flat on his dinner-plate sized hooves, is near
8'6" at the tips of his ears, and seems to have been hewn from stone by Hephaestus himself, his body sculpted by years of brutal
physical labor. Usually, his lower body is covered in jeans or cargo jeans (big difference, whoo) and his
torso is left bare to better display his physique, which the equine is still moderately proud of.
Chaos has black ink dyed into his fur as well as needled into the flesh beneath. Across his broad back, dark ink stains the shape of a massive crest of arms, a Prussian eagle clutching crown and scepter in its claws, that was his first and most prized tattoo.
His sleek chestnut fur is so short and smooth that it feels like crushed velvet pressed against his warm, firm
skin. A white blaze is emblazoned [shush] across his long maw, centered between his icy blue eyes. The scent of earth and fresh
rain seems to emanate from him, and it isn't something unnatural, either. All the time spent with the earth and
working its natural bounty has seemed to seep into his bones and fur and flesh, making the horse a permanent reminder
of nature's strength. He never seems to speak out of a deep bass rumble, unless excited by a few choice friends,
his voice reminding many of the deep rumbling emanations of a close thunderstorm, with all the same terrible
power behind it. Lending to the aura of silent strength are the many scars that crisscross his dense form. Across
his right shoulder are three identical claw marks, left by a rather confused snow leopardess. His thighs are
covered in X-shaped groupings, the same disfiguring his muscular, inked back in broader, thicker
patterns, closely resembling those left by a metal-tipped whip.
Chaos is an embodiment of his name. He has no significant other, but many friends with which he consorts with in
all manner of intriguing and entertaining ways. More often than not, he is brooding and watching the Tub, rather
than participating, and will begrudgingly engage in conversation only if persuaded accordingly. He has a better
half, to be sure, a vixen of a mare named Eris, who occasionally can be seen in the Tub in the stallion's place,
attempting to keep the friends he has and enjoy herself outside of their shared mental prison.
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