Meet the Studs: Sabata, the Fox of Cinnamon Touch and Tongue
#9 of Meet the Studs
So, bit of a musclefur fan. Less obvious from my writing style and gallery than you'd think, but just glance at mah faves. The evidence is there. All things meaty, manly(and sometimes femmy), and powerful, when portrayed with style and talent, is A+ in my book. So much so that I've been developing a rather exhaustively involved and in-depth series, nearly a decade in the making, involving the subject...well, perhaps not involving, but rather featuring it, to the point that with barest exception...
all the furs are huge. Like, nearly all of em. Indulges my author appeal and leaves open tons of possibilities for far more varied personalities than "vain, dominant gymrat" and themes to explore therein.
So of course, I've had to wrack my tiny brain creating characters for this self-indulgent little project, and suffice to say, I've been busy. You don't even know the breadth of character and species I've been developing and mining so far. Like, guess. You won't get it, but guess. Ya don't...just, dude, stop. You don't even know. You're embarassing yourself. You don't know. YA DUNT KNOW
Enjoy. Love it, Hate it, let me know.
Name: Sabata Izzralini Species: Red Fox Age: 25 Height: 7' 2" Weight: 542 lbs.
Appearance: Aside from his impressive, heavy-set physique, Sabata seems like your typical red fox. Rusty orange fur with a snowy chest and belly, trademark black "socks" on his hands and feet, perky "Dorito" ears and a lustrous, bushy tail with white candy tip. His only truly unusual physical feature is a white G-Clef brand on his right palm, which he typically keeps covered with a pristine glove of fine alabaster-white cloth.
To compensate for his "averageness", Sabata fancies himself quite the classy dresser. He usually wears a snug, powder-blue dress shirt with thin, black pinstripes, a handsome pair of dark brown slacks fastened with matching suspenders, a charming off-white hat, and sleek, black-and-white dress shoes you'd expect to see worn in church, always tied extra tight in perfect knots and kept polished to a near-mirror sheen.
Personality: Slick, Smooth, Mysterious, Mischievous. As you'd guess from his inarguably dapper attire and sultry, down-home drawl that'd have you melting in his paws like caramel-covered almonds on a sweltering summer evening, Sabata is the quintessential Southern Gentleman. He walks with a certain austere pride, swaggering just slightly as he takes perfectly postured steps, one after the other in such a perfectly punctual rhythm you could set a metronome to the swish of his full tail and bounce of his fuller rump. He often gestures with his paws when he talks, his fingers dancing in the air, accentuating his phrases with perfectly-timed snaps and sways. His manners, no matter the circumstance, are impeccable, and his coat is always meticulously groomed and primped, fluffed and brushed to perfection as if clothed in billowing fields of rusty straw, yet clearly defining his massive, bulging physique whenever the occasion arises that he's egged on to pose for swooning onlookers.
Of course, his sheer, almost regal presence is equaled only by his unflappable charm. He spellbinds vixens and foxbois alike (and everything in between) with his gleaming emerald eyes that add weight and warmth to his every breathy whisper and sultry promise, every dazzling yet oddly predatory smile, every devilish wink. His touch is like a drug that kills the senses and whisks away your weight and the therapuetic prick of the claws he threads down your skin the syringe, allowing him to sweep you away into his private paradise of silken fur, intoxicating scent and hard, bulging muscle. His ears perk cutely as he takes in your every word, feeding any conversation imaginable with thoughtful rebuttals and insightful contributions till you're talking(or whatever else) long into the sparkling summer nights.
Of course, even the most sterling of gold doubloons has a second side, and Sabata is no exception. Being a fox, he has a natural need to be rambunctious and cause mischief. His air of devilishness, a bubbling desire to wreak havoc and play pranks stewing just under his innocent surface, would be noticeable if it weren't drowned by his sheer charm. Though a touch vain and always striving to keep up appearances, Sabata sometimes gives in to his less-than-wholesome side, slipping off unaccompanied into the shadows to spy on unsuspecting adulterers or harmlessly torment some hapless sap. His tricks are always largely harmless, but the extreme, convoluted lengths he'll go to pull one over on someone can be disturbing. He's also a masterful liar and would probably make (or once was) an excellent con man. Serpents have duller tongues. Those not immediately taken in by his overwhelming southern charm tend to be wary around him. And for good reason.
Abilities: As a Solfege, Sabata is gifted with the "Cross Road Tempo", a power attuned to the element of Spirit. This allows him to create spectral images and illusions, manifest small kitsune-like familiars formed from white flame and temporarily possess living and inanimate objects. He also wields a short katana he calls "Ladybird", but he honestly doesn't have the smallest clue how to properly use it and only really keeps it as an exotic keepsake from a fortuitous old con. He normally holds and wields it the way one would a walking cane or a rapier, which at least confuses enemies for a time. He can also use his power to split his tail into nine illusory copies, each capable of holding a weapon.
Random notes:
Has a peculiar fashion sense when it comes to accesorising himself. Anything gold, precious or otherwise shiny and sparkly goes on his thick, sooty forearms. The easier to admire a ritzy chunk of rock while grooming himself, or to wow prospective lovers with a flash of the paw. Clothes must be prim, impressive and in light, airy tones to compliment his ruggedly rusty coat. Good luck getting him to admit it, but he once entertained the vice of gold bling in his grill for a spell. One ball-full of half-concealed chuckles and light teasing later, it was summarily removed. With a fang of smooth pearl.
Has no real taste for sweets, but buttery pastries and home-cooked meals of the "meaty and smothered in broth" persuasion make him a happy fox indeed. Some suspect he chooses his hits based purely on the scrumptious aromas wafting from a given mansion. He considers indulging his tastes while keeping his duds clean and cut an addictive challange. His record remains perfect to this day.
His accent might be a put-on. Kinda. Every so often, if something gets a good belly laugh out of him, he's drunk, he's in the middle of a depe thrust, or some awesome combination thereof, you might, just might, hear a hint of a spicy cajun inflection in there. Maybe. If he notices you noticing, you'll never hear it again.
Particularly enjoys the company of the elderly. He considers it valuable exposure to wizened viewpoints and perspectives, both for the culture and for any legit-sounding stories to work into his own cover. Despite spending a good deal of time taking in the company of old money, to rob from the elderly is one of the rare things that raise his disgust. The others being caterpillars and car exhaust.
Ironically enough, he has a lust for fast cars, fast planes, just going fast. Lying back in lush apolstery, shirt popped open, the rush of biting winds whipping across his pecs, fur billowing in waves. A kaleidoscopic burst of endless scents and sounds boring through his senses at a million miles a second, massive arm draped out the window; just the meteoric synesthesia of careening through time and space, the throb of the engine throttling his heart like an amp, his muscle like a lover and his soul like a miracle; it's nothing less than an orgasmic experience, an exhilariting escape from his obsessively maintained appearance and demeanor, allowing him to shed his perfect manners and prim and proper chatter and racing thoughts on what perfect compliment to dole out or played-up moral with which to impress and return to some side of him more primal, more raw. Get him in the bitch seat of a throbbing, low-to-the ground monster with HEMI in its blood and switch on some My Funny Valentine and you'll have an orange lump of fox meat with which to ply and mold however you please or dare.