[O] Transmissions will resume - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11) +--- Thread: [O] Transmissions will resume (/showthread.php?tid=12077) |
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Transmissions will resume - Deimos - 01-20-2014
Safety was a delusion, and he loathed the notion that they had to flee walls, peaks, and valleys that protected, shielded, and guarded them, because the world no longer gave credence to borders, to fringes, to power and domination. A touch of prowess, a fizzle of precision, a raucous blend of might and treachery couldn’t consume, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t devour the sinuous, bending lines of bedlam slinking past their door. He was left with a foreign bout of nothingness, because the devilish pull of his invocations, the noxious blend of his irreverence, the twist, the distortion, of his feral regime, held naught an edge of might over the schemes, the ruses, the labyrinths of their unholy perils. And even here, embarking deeper into the holds of this sanctuary, was a mysterious, foolish enterprise, because he held no ruminations over the subject, had never gleamed upon its walls, had no notion of what in its confines – whether it was to be their newfound tombs, gleaming sepulchers, decadent catacombs to hide their bones, or a true, unending sanctum, concealing them from the rotten oars of caustic imbalances and shades tangled and knotted across their eyes. The Reaper rarely roamed without deliberation, without the forethought, the knowledge, the sentiments and examination of meticulous movements; he harbored cool calculations, not the rushing harpoon of a foolish, fervent juvenile. But even now, he was ordained and dictated to run course as a ignorant beast, gambling, instigating risk instead of projections and predictions, and as his piercing eyes took in the long, extending walls, the scents of the unfamiliar, of lives paralyzed by their own actions form long ago and the current dilemmas, embroiled and unrolling into sweeping falls. He’d called his harem here to safeguard, seeking shelter when the chasm could crashing down upon their heads, and the sinking, toiling feeling bit at his blackguard munitions, fueled his instigated, ignited contemptuous soul. He sought information from its clambering forces, he reveled in the notion of grasping command, proficiency and arms from the alms of its supporting structure, and coveted the right of supremacy, ascendancy, again and again, until the machinations shook from his scathing spine, and the reticence of his brow christened his molten apathy. They’d live to see another day, to prosper, to unite, to divide, to triumph and conquer; starting with this heinous pestilence. The rest of the earth could wait to crumble. [Basin people are free to join. I'd love some W.A.R. information (or any other info) as well, if anyone is passing by~] RE: Transmissions will resume - d'Artagnan - 01-20-2014
RE: Transmissions will resume - Deimos - 01-25-2014
The Reaper was not a creature meant to escape, to bolt or retreat; too consumed, too wretched, too rigid and unyielding to provide the notion of failure and unwinding ineptitude upon his brow – he didn’t wear vulnerability well, felt it choke like a vice around his throat. The sentiment collapsed along the taut foundation of his wake, a relentless visage of reticence and damnation, swallowed by the innards of a cavern and driving his soldiers, his brethren, his patriots, into another world with unknown fathoms and furtive depths. He’d been forced into a binding multitude of frustration, instead of extermination, obliteration, abominations, curving unholy filaments across monstrous scales and undaunted wakes, chiseling, piercing, slicing and severing the soulless eyes searching for his kingdom. He couldn’t fight malice with menace, couldn’t cast aside the weary threads of thrones and crowns, couldn’t chase, wander into the murky entrails of the searing palaces, the wayward pathways, watch the land burn, simmer, boil around him, stab and maul chaotic doldrums, embrace the labyrinth heresy. A twisted, disregarded, infernal devil, as though his hands were tied, mind fixated upon the unfamiliar, with no machinations or knowledge in sight beyond the gleam of safety and refuge upon a loam he’d never crossed, never tread, never seen. A forgotten piece of Mephistopheles’ power, left in the forgotten, stark, abandoned whims of a capricious irreverence, insignificant in the heartless throngs, lacquered for battle but incapable of arriving upon its vehement dais. With great power comes great responsibility. Thirsty and deprived, strangled and smothered in the midst of havoc, he seethed in quiet, silent, hushed licentiousness, brewing a potent anarchy, manifesting contempt through the imbalance of mortal souls, beasts left to rot and wither in their once monstrous cataclysms. What he wouldn’t give to see an icy chasm open along the ground, a sliver of frozen calamity rise from the ashes of their bleak circumstances, something he could hold, something he could claim, something he could harpoon into the veils, shades and phantoms persevering beyond the door. They’d crawl and he’d annihilate, breathe ferocious fumes over the molten havoc, touch and stroke bestial, eldritch hymns until the last of their fortitude collapsed into the hollowed void. But Deimos was distracted from the yearning, the burning, nestled in his nefarious mind, as the creeping of another figure, too easily recognized by scent, by voice, by mere presence, that he nearly smirked. The Doctor, whole, alive and well, a rancorous, bitter reminder of unending days across fringes, borders and edges, cliff walls stoking rolling tides, scorched forests and laborious invasions fought and lost. Passing moments had meant destruction, altered croons had promised desolation, slaughter, termination by the wicked, for the wicked. When tangible ruins had been seized and possessed, ensnared and gnarled by his rapier brutality, when it was only chaos that fixated his mindset to the stoked fires and ignited infernos. Before he needed to care. Had the Nightshade been the same, dripping poison into the mouths, the ears, the eyes, of his victims, caustic and callous, permitted to bend venom into his blend of toxic derision, scorn and deceit? Upon departing, upon leaving them behind, had he found what he’d yearned for? Was his appetite sated, was his quarry left in their same disheveled ambience, distorted and decayed? Should Deimos have been envious of his freedom, no longer locked and corroded by the chains of kingdoms and palaces? He welcomed his old friend with a clenched jaw and a haggard tone, deep and loathing, not for the behemoth before him, but for the haze he’d been pulled into, a crown suddenly, maddeningly heavy. “We were forced to flee.” The uttering of truth rippled through him in a vicious, frustrated growl, tumbled into the pervading walls with a lone, agonizing hiss, sibilance of seditious souls. And what if by escaping they’d left their homeland to be varnished and cloaked with the daggers of pariah interludes, framing their glaciers and peaks, their rime and summits for gestures of a new regime, a foreign reign of deadly infidels? The notion turned him into a more unyielding state, unattainable, unreachable, burdened by the massive exploits of a Machiavellian membrane. A question posed along the tip of his tongue, for curiosity, abandoning the ferocity, the shambles, for one moment of inquiry plunging through the din of familiarity. “Did you find Mauja?” RE: Transmissions will resume - Roux - 01-26-2014 ROUX.
We have the answer to all your fears The simple red colt followed his herd, head low, eyes searching for purchase in the daylight. His blindness left him helpless in this time of fear, and the tiny bird that clung to his mane trembled, feeding off of his emotion. He had named the little guy Edison, hoping he would grow into a large, majestic, intelligent warrior of a bird. The name was strong, and he hoped it to fuel the companion as well as himself. Now, however, both were consumed with fear, confused at why the herd was fleeing and unknown to where they were travelling. Roux's heart thrashed rapidly against his growing, deepening chest, already alight with rippling muscle of youth. The organ, seeming to pump blood as well as desire through his extremities, yearned for the comfort of his twin, for the protection of the crimson and obsidian brother. It was a rare thing for Roux to want the complete guidance of his able brother, on such a normal occasion the silver eyed colt would wish for the two to stang aligned, matched, partners. This day, however, Roux wished for Sacre to stand in the lead and take his hoof.
The quest was far and it took them a great distance from their snowy mountains, causing Roux's serenity to diminish further with each step of his uncleft hooves. They reached the caves finally, and Roux found a new solace. Picture once again filled his eyes, the greyscale vision he desperately clung to in the night was with him at all times of day, only dimmed by the few streams of light that broke from the ceiling of the caverns. The boy and his bird no longer trembled, no longer walked with ears pinned flat against nape and tail tucked tight against hind legs. Instead, the pair moved with the confidence of any yearling, nostrils flaring as Roux took in the scents of the caves. They were much different than the ones in the Basin, deeper and filled with more wonder. Roux felt powerful here with his sight intact. He would be safe.
He did not stray far from his herdmates, but spent most of his time moving through the dark caves in search of his twin. Worry writhed inside him, grasping his lungs and his soul to drain the life from him. Sacre was in danger, he knew that much, for the stained boy was not with the herd. "Sacre," He whispered, peering his large head around a horner. He tilted his thick, spiraled horn towards the new room, warning any danger that he was a force to be reckoned with. The boyish, stupid bravery grew in his chest as he searched for his brother. Finding no reply to his whisper, Roux flicked his tail and walked into the room. Familiar voices filled his ears, though slightly muffled by the sound of crashing water in the distance. He knew the voices well. One was his Lord, Deimos. The other was his wayward father, d'Artagnan.
The boy picked up into a trot then, rousing his companion from his sleep. You will meet my father today, He thought to the bird, whose feathers were growing in nice and red with each growing day. The bird made a disgruntled chirp from his mane-nest and closed his baby golden eyes. As Roux closed the distance between the two stallions and himself they became brighter images, parts of them disappearing as light flecked over their hides. "Father," Roux breathed, exasperated and slightly joyous in the same instant. The colt, painted in his father's colors, stopped short of the two, standing between them yet several yards back. "Deimos." Roux said, bowing his crowned head in respect of the deadly stallion. Blinking silver eyes, Roux took a step towards his father, searching his body. The bag was foreign, but Aramis beneath him was so familiar. A boyish grin threatened to pull at the corner's of Roux's mouth as he finally closed the gap between him and his father. "Where is mother? Sacre?" The yearling asked, lipping his father's side in such a way to draw comfort from the large stallion. RE: Transmissions will resume - Valhalia - 01-27-2014 The journey to the deep cavern was not an easy one, hasty with the unicorns not being spared many breaks. Silver orbs were filled with swirling emotions, overflowing with loathing--pure hatred to the largest extent. Damned demons had ruined her experience with the Basin, annihilated any thoughts of proving herself worthy to the supreme herd. Unicorns did rule Helovia after all, the aristocrats of any civilization, watchful and dominant. Forced to flee from their land, the tawny bitch gritted her jaw with arrogant malevolence, hoping to crush every last one of them, their skulls a disturbing mess on the ground. Led to a series of --not finished but go on anyways-- RE: Transmissions will resume - Frost Fyre - 01-28-2014
RE: Transmissions will resume - Sacre - 02-04-2014
RE: Transmissions will resume - Tangere - 02-06-2014 RE: Transmissions will resume - Deimos - 02-08-2014
Flames of faith and contempt; a silent witness as his herd scrambled from their summit perches and became a mist with the rest of the fallen. Shackled and gagged from supremacy into curled, turbulent fixations of turmoil, lost and flickering in the horizon – where they should have damned, they only bled confusion, where they should have mauled, they only reigned in befuddlement and disorder, only distorted fibers of darkness into chaotic din. He scalded, scathed and brewed, antagonistic and brooding, incensed over and over again by the weakened decibels of their state, left to shout for comrades, left to burn and seethe in hollowed shells and thick, murky, unknown caves, left to wither and decay in the bounty of ignorance, chained to walls and enamel. But the Reaper refused his beasts to become a shrinking, shirked, renounced clan, he’d already been forsaken once, and he spurned, declined, the notion that his warriors, his soldiers, his brethren, so capable, so mighty, be united only in deterioration. Iron indignation, scraped and reticent, chiseled deeper into his damnation, found the steely clamor of his feral wiles, strung them together into fathoms of anarchy and bellowing subterfuge. His skull extended nods to each recognized individual, pulled from the innards of lost mountaintops, a clench of the jaw for each unsung creature left and vanished, incapable of scouring for their weary souls. The Doctor’s child, the spotted scholar (searching for another familiar sage, and no answering call received), recognized and given due ambience, the piercing slate of his gaze marking their arrival with some jaded notion, for at least they’d heeded his warning, had been there to hear his growls and hisses, his demands and commands he never yearned to utter again. Only the second colt of D’art, words tumbling, foiling, spewing from his mouth, gained the full attention of the Reaper, earned inquiry and curiosity from the spurned wreckage of his molten, acerbic tyranny. Monsters out there and Illynx’s shrieking of death already being apart of them, his touch worthless and ineffectual, seething amongst the widened expanse of his diligent mind until they grasped and grated over the information, attempted to pull together strings of worth and note. A solemn decree, formulated past his frustrated, vexed mouth, pursued the colt’s wisdom. “Thank you, Sacre.” The more they learned, the more they gained, the probability and possibility of finding a way to demolish, to wreck, to ruin, the havoc stretching over their expanse could be achieved, and he didn’t hesitate in unwinding the layers he’d collected. “We must be vigilant. Demons have already taken the GildedBlade, and are not annihilated by death.” He’d tried, attempted to salvage her behemoth wake with at least the clambering of quietus, but even then, the conviction of demise hadn’t been enough. The puncturing slate of his stare settled upon the gathered, and his sinister tongue unraveled a query into the enamel of labyrinths, mazes and ruses. “Have any others been infected?” How many of them had been torn from the icicles, from the glaciers, and placed back into the earth with foaming ivories and disastrous innards, forgoing creeds and convictions for pestilence? And how could they annihilate a foe made up of their own beasts? The world could only be conquered when they’d managed to secure a threshold of power back upon their own kingdom, their own fiends. [-murders post order simply to move things along and gather info- ;D] RE: Transmissions will resume - d'Artagnan - 02-09-2014
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