Information


Josse has a minion!

Hamlet the Snooty Kitty




Josse
Legacy Name: Josse


The Custom Cream Kumos
Owner: Tennie

Age: 13 years, 8 months, 1 week

Born: July 19th, 2010

Adopted: 13 years, 8 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: July 19th, 2010


Pet Spotlight Winner
June 21st, 2012

Statistics


  • Level: 5
     
  • Strength: 10
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 10
     
  • HP: 10/10
     
  • Intelligence: 99
     
  • Books Read: 99
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed


profile and character ; Tennie
Josse Anthony King was born and raised in a small village in Africa, to a French mother and English father. His father was a missionary sent to the barest regions of the Savanna to spread the word of God, running both a school and church out of the bush. A scholarly man, Josse's father taught his son the importance of historical literature at a young age, instilling a love of William Shakespeare within the young boy. The young King was extremely intelligent, learning quickly the languages of French, English, and Middle English from his studies; he was fluent in all three by the age of eight.

A life-changing event occurred just after Josse's tenth birthday, while he was playing with the children who attended his father's school. In a rather biting game of tag, Josse was declared 'it', and he struggled after the other boys, his blood pumping in his ears. Out of nowhere, he doubled over, a pain itching at his skin and bones. Issuing a piercing shriek that seemed to shake the ground beneath them, Josse's body began to shift, changing into the form of a Painted Dog. As the transition completed, Josse lay panting, fully in his canine form. The other children, superstitious still despite their new Christian ways, ran to their village elders. A month of trials began for the young King boy.

Exorcism after exorcism, prayer after prayer, Josse was the subject of terrified eyes and skirted footfall. Although he changed back into his human form quite quickly after the incident, the people of the village he resided in looked upon his with fearful eyes, unsure if he was demon or God. Josse's parents, superstitious people themselves, allowed the treatment from the village elders, sure that it was some disease that had caused the shift in appearance. What Josse's mother never revealed was her father's odd capability to transform his shape at will, not unlike her son's now present skill.

It was after a month of relentless trials that the village elder concluded the only form of releasing the curse from Josse and his village was to banish the boy. With sadness, the young boy and his family left the small village they had called home for over ten years.

Despite the shapeshifting 'handicap', Josse continued to excel in his studies, advancing beyond his classmates to graduate secondary school at the age of fifteen. His father pushed him to continue his schooling, and so Josse attended the University of Cape Town in South Africa, graduating with a Bachelors in English at the age of nineteen. He continued on still, keeping his shapeshifting persona hidden from the societal world, and acquired a Masters in Shakespearean Literature at twenty-two.

For the past two years, Josse King has taken a break from advancing his mind and focused on the creative aspect of his cerebellum, writing various novels and articles on Shakespearean literature. He's the proud author (under a different pen name, of course) of two romance-oriented historical fiction novels, then three other historical fiction works under his own name. Currently, he lives in the country, among other shapeshifters in a large community home. He hopes to un-repress his shifting self and allow the canine within him to emerge among others like him.
Sunday, September 15, 1996
Father has suggested I keep a journal for myself, to expunge my creativity. He prides himself on the fact that I'm extremely eloquent in my speech, and only ten (as of today) in my years. And he should, seeing as how it was with his teachings that I became so textually rich. With a little help from the classic authors, of course. His books seemed to have helped me more than he thinks.
I digress, Journal. I'm sure it's alright if I address you such, seeing as how no one will read you but I. I doubt there will be much to write within your pages; Father wants me to write my stories down, and my poetry, but I doubt there will be less celebration if I write that within other books and journals. No, you I shall save for a greater purpose. Every great intellectual has a journal, after all.

September 22, 1996
Spring is in full swing, Journal, the sounds of the Savanna echoing through our humble village. Masozi and I have created a new game with the other village children, one we hope they will enjoy for many seasons. Since the Elders and warriors are about to go off into the first great hunt of the season, our game reflects this. A team of children will play warriors, the other animals. The objective of the warriors is to reach the other herd of children as they 'graze', and manage to hunt as many of them down as they can. Our first game was rather successful, with six out of the eleven 'animals' being caught. I hope we can play again tomorrow, after my studies.
Mother came up to me today, asking how I was. Now, Journal, you probably think this is nothing out of the ordinary, but for my mother, it is quite so. She rarely concerns herself with my well-being, when she knows how I fare by my actions and words. So this odd act of motherly concern baffled me into an almost stupid silence. I quickly recovered and explained how I had been the last few weeks, which in a simple word is 'fine'. But Mother continued to pester me with questions about any changes, different feelings within my chest, and the like. I attributed the bothersome actions to Spring Fever.

October 6, 1996
It seems as if my Mother's worries were justified, Journal. While I was playing with the neighbor kids, a strange sensation took over me. It was like pins and needles all over my body, eating away at me from the inside out. I don't know if I screamed or not; Mosozi told me later that I had, so hard it shook the earth. All I remember is falling to my knees and the pain. Journal, it hurt so badly. Like being ripped apart from your stomach, while your blood boils just under your skin.
I must have passed out because when I woke up, everything was different. My sight, my height; I wasn't quite sure what was going on. When I tried to speak nothing came out; Masozi and the other children just looked at me with shocked and fearful eyes. When I went for them, to ask them what was wrong, I fell, unbalanced, wrapped within ripped cloth. It was then I looked down, and issued a series of chitters and yips in surprise, my vocal chords unable to reproduce the human voice.
Instead of hands, I possessed paws; instead of the arms and legs of my human self, I had those of a canine. A snout, instead of a nose. Long rounded ears I had control of, capable of hearing the women across the village, cooking dinner. It seemed, in all honesty, Journal, that I had transformed into the shape of a canine. And based upon the spotting I could vaguely see on my forelimbs, I was now a Painted Dog.
"Duiwel, duiwel!" The children screamed and turned from me to run off, into the village. I tried to chase them but I was tangled within my clothes and weak from whatever transition had conspired while I had been unconscious. With a groan I felt the comings of another 'attack', and sure enough within minutes, I was back to my normal self, human, within the tattered remains of my clothing. I ran back inside to the comfort of my parents, tears, and shock tainting my words.
A boy arrived not too long ago, Journal, sent by the Elder Council. They are to meet with me tomorrow and discuss possible ways of expelling the strange demon inside me. My parents have agreed to this treatment. I don't want to admit it, but I'm afraid.

October 27, 1996
The trials for my soul are weakening me.
Not only have I been placed under some sort of house arrest, locked within a decrepit hut, but I am forced to eat a shoddy daily meal of corn sludge and bitter wine, as the Elders believe it will cleanse my spirit. I am locked within these confines and guarded every night, with little time for play. Sleep is almost impossible. The Elders and Shamans have discovered a way of inducing my ability, and they do so every day, putting me through the torturous shifting process with wide-eyed wonder. I am a subject, entertainment almost, to their superstitious minds.
My parents have done nothing for my sake, but plead the elders to purge the demon from my soul. My father has tried his Christian methods; holy water, prayer, and intense exorcism, but none have faltered my ability. So it is now that the attempts by the villagers have increased, and I am deemed as cursed.
My mother continues to look on, quiet and emotionless, save for a knowing stare. I do not think she realizes she looks on me this way, but the curiosity bubbling within me as to why she stares at me so nears painful. Her fear keeps her silent, and it seems that while I am continued to be experimented on, she shall remain in such a state.

November 3, 1996
We've been exiled, Journal. As the Israelites from Egypt, we must leave our home, wandering to someplace foreign. It is hard for me to write, as we are in the process of driving to some sort of civilization, so this entry may be brief, and somewhat rushed. Despite the trials I have gone through for my condition, there was little the Elders and Shamans could do to expel the demon from within my soul. I was asked to leave, and take my curse with me, so that I would not curse the village's land. It is as if I have committed a crime, Journal. Have I? Am I a demon, like they say, or is this strange ability within me a blessing?
Adieu, Journal. I shall write again when we have made it somewhere I am accepted, despite this curse.

No further journal entries acquired


art: TheShadowedGrim, Poinkou
human representation; Ryan Rasmussen
profile, art, & story: Tennie
overlay: User not found: higgsbr]

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