[O] maybe i'll be sane for you - 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] maybe i'll be sane for you (/showthread.php?tid=15817) |
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maybe i'll be sane for you - Aurelia - 10-01-2014
RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Déodat - 10-02-2014
RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Aurelia - 10-04-2014
RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Deimos - 10-04-2014 The Reaper, solidified maelstrom and contorted behemoth, maneuvered amongst the outskirts with the shadows, with the murk, with the brazen, stoic interludes of Frostfall’s entropy. Like a bow, strung taut and yearning, eager, for the opportunity to wreak havoc, lay waste amidst the measures of peace and deliverance, craving, demanding, urging the blackguard, barbed bits of destruction, he stole across the wide expanse of snow and valleys. In some redundant, witless sentiment, another soul had stepped near their borders, and the temptation, the enticement, of luring damnation and demise into their sector goaded him onward – a fiendish whisper, a hostile breeze, an alluring carnivore predilection carved, molded, sculpted into the unrelenting pace of his stride. He remembered all the others as if they were merely yesterday and not seasons long since past: the idiotic pegasi and their emboldened venture, ultimately leading to bleached bones and stolen wings, the vacant-minded wolves and their fervent display of audacity only leading them to slaughter; the brutal machinations of twisted, torn, forlorn souls beseeched by curiosity and massacred in their ignorance. The faces changed, but the idiocy and imprudence did not – eternally wrapped in the same, undaunted shade of moronic ventures and imbecile delusions, daring to peek into their world, curiosity melding into cosmic adventures, ending in the barren fuselage of a broken, embittered body. While they rarely stepped into the fold of other herds, at least without a goal in mind (war, bloodshed, emissary debuts), they were not often rewarded the alike courtesy: the bold and the brave spent their wayward days climbing up the mountain peaks, closing in on winter expanse, and then being beaten, scolded, scorched, by the merciless harpoons they harbored within. The Lord, Deimos, with his severe, indifferent frame, with his devilish prowess, with his infidel schemes and Machiavellian calculations, would brandish his knife again and again; each time they came, his rapier would be extended towards their throats. He was not the first to arrive. His visage held none of his disappointment, void of emotion except the pernicious nonchalance of his piercing features: at the very least, if there were to be witnesses to ichor and ruination, Deodat would be a trustworthy participant. The eldritch titan’s stare riveted upon the Corporal for an instant, bestowing a gratified nod, for he’d guarded his home, locked eyes with a potential enemy, a foolish wanderer. Moments later, amidst the intimidating juncture of his poisonous, treacherous countenance, he studied, considered, examined the prospective intruder, her ivory wings, her gilded markings, her fatuous, inane stature. How long would it take to tear her apart, feather-by-feather? The only words he heard her utter across the icy vestiges was her request, and by their standards, unfortunately, he could not launch and shove his sword into her chest. Perhaps in a later instant, if she goaded, if she wished, if she yearned for the touch, the taste, the relish of anarchy, he could provide the villainous venue. For now, he had to adhere to their compacts and covenants, and stoked the fire of his deep vocals, allowing the fierce friction, the ferocious bedlam, to soak and sear across the frozen earth. “I am the King.” He paused, the puncturing shade of his dangerous figure staring upon the winged femme who stood amidst the sentinels, waiting for one idiotic moment where she slipped beneath its eyes and felt the languishing bridge of pain, of chaos, of collapse and disorder. “What do you require?” Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch. RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Déodat - 10-04-2014
RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Beowulf - 10-04-2014 RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Thranduil - 10-04-2014 The golden son’s vacation in the Basin was not exactly welcomed. Soon the festival would be over though and he could return to the south. A cold northern wind blew off the steepe and up behind him, sending shivers down his dorsal stripped back. Tossing the twin horns up and back those earth eyes glare at the northern mountains. Winter was near here, it was sure enough time to go. Snorting as if to sneer at the gold had of nature the gold turns away to return to pawing for the tundra grasses hidden under the light dusting of snow. Not before a white and gold flash catches his eyes. Out of curiosity the gold looks towards the entrance of the Basin. He was beginning to know those who wandered here, but this one was not known. Earth eyes narrow in as the creature looks up at their sentinel. Oh wait. A bold faced smile washes over him, and tasseled tail slashes out like a happy dog. Oh he knows this girl, and she is most certainly not of the Basin. A quick beat canter rolls the gold across the valley floor and slows as he joins the gather group. He was just in time to hear slip from her lips her name. Or rather, the name she gave, Arete. Oh how it took all his skill to keep from laughing out at this girls pose. Instead the golden trots gingerly a few lengths to the side of his party and stops. Twin horns held high as he looks pleasantly at the crème and gold bird. Even the fact that the damned Reaper was here could not trump his high, nor the curiosity of the giant hairball next to him. Deodat he knew from their spar, but that even could not draw him away. He was just too intent on discovering what new trouble the girl was brewing. The only reveal of this was the flashing gold flecked in his eyes, and that constantly flicking tail, like a cat waiting to pounce. Not yet though. No, he would toss her under the bus to be sure, but the gold wanted to know precisely why the girl was here. Why was she using a fake name. The gold would get the answers first then toss her under the bus. “Now, now, she has not wronged us…yet.” A smile lifts slightly. “I haven’t heard of Arete before though…” She would certainly remember him as the golden man on the isle who spoke of the evils of the Basin. To be jumping that role was indeed, a brash action, but the golden man was just too thrilled to have this drama bird at the Basin’s door. Honestly it’s more than he could hope for. It did take a moment though for the golden to remember exactly what he knew of the girl. First, she had run from the Edge after being captured by the Falls, and had taken refuge in the Throat. More importantly, she had burned the Falls. Apparently quite a number of them. Gold body shifted with readiness. Burns were not really his fashion style. Oh but wouldn’t Deimos look lovely with a few? Oh this was just too good to be true. OOC :: He's just having too much fun. "speech" RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Aurelia - 10-05-2014
RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Deimos - 10-07-2014 He waited, unmoving, statuesque depravity, the abysmal, embodiment of Satan’s gifts and Lucifer’s tactics, a chilling opus drawn and fused into the rebellious boundaries. The silence stretched and the crowd gathered (the massive Beowulf, and another pest entering the fray; gilded Thranduil), and the reasons for her ineptitude, for her persistence in remaining amongst those who did not want her went unanswered. For a few moments, he merely stared at her, marveled and in awe of her rampant stupidity, of her blundering stitches, of her inability to utter a single, decent explanation – and then the frustration grew. Was this a game, to tangle attention from the likes of many, to dot the horizon with those who’d come to witness her poor attempt at communication, at her imbecile methods and movements; a study in ignorance, an education in idiocy? Was this a childish exposition, a method of travel and curiosity, unfounded and moronic? Or was this all some ruse, a ploy, to distract them from other endeavors, entanglements, or enemies brooding and brewing in the limelight? The Reaper’s eyes narrowed, and his overwhelming stature spurned and spun the layers and lacquer of sinister, nefarious designs, tending to the notions and actions necessary to ensure the mare left, whole or quartered. The impassive, stoic glare fixated solely on the winged femme, with her unworldly demeanor and foolish remarks, and picked apart the granules of his deep tones, offered her one more opportunity to state her case, her reasoning for traipsing into their Siberian void, for donning her form beneath the blades of their sentinels, of their drawn swords. “I will ask only once more: what is your purpose here?” A rare bestowal rendered and given, but he didn’t partake or describe the damned, floundered sentiments of those who’d refused to give chase, to respond accordingly, who’d refused to go back from whence they’d came: after all, the beast, the behemoth, the Lord and winter King was always content with violence, with villainy, with cutting and splitting apart the ineffectual. Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch. RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Déodat - 10-09-2014
RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Thranduil - 10-11-2014 For being so cold in this damn this far north it was sure getting hot in this small grouping. The golden son though takes it all in stride. However much he tries to hide such utter happiness the golden can not help but grin wider. Oh how much he wanted to counter her there, to speak his piece there. To see her face fall and the truth spawn chaos among the gathering, but the golden knew better. He knew to wait, as a cat does for its prey. To watch for it to reveal its blindnesses, and truths. So he waits while the damned Reaper questions her again. Tassled tail lashes out more fiercely, body pressing more forward, waiting. The girl steps back unsure and like the painted blood bay he steps forward, the natural pull of prey. Only, for each a prey of a different purpose. It was all going so well, then it all feel apart. Harks pin as ice kicks up beside him, and head tosses high in surprise. Earth eyes narrow in growing anger, what the FUCK was that stupid creature doing!? The blood bay, who had been so calm in their spar becomes a quick match to set the others ablaze. The golden son was shocked into silence, a bitter silence. Jaw grinded together, and teeth bared. Perhaps it may look like they aimed to her, but truly it was to the man of his own allegiance. Or supposed to be anyway. More at the moment it seemed the rash actions had squandered any possible attempts to pull from her, her purpose here. A golden fore limb strikes out as he challenges her freedom. It is not all ruined though. The fire bird slips out low, a name. Mauja. The gold calms, satisfied to have at least his answer, even if the blood bay was calling disaster upon himself. Would the gold warn his fellow heard mate of the firey pain that awaited him? No, the stupid idiot deserved it. I never comes though. The golden man now turns his anger to Aurelia. She was joking right. The girl was giving in? A snort rung through the gold as he shakes his head. This was ridiculous. Nothing was going as it should now. Not only had the golden’s plan be broken, but he knew not who she sought, and none of those who he despised in this gathering were laying on the ice in black, bloody blisters. Damn. It was her fault of course. Of all the times for the fire bird’s drama prone self to release to a peaceful settlement, why did it have to be now. Stomping as the blood bay claimed her the gold turned away from them. He would have nothing more to do with this waste of time. Seeing the hairy mammoth of a horse move off, while the damned Reaper stayed, the golden paused. It was not that he liked Deimos. In fact, the golden hated that black heart more than any he’d yet faced. The only thing that protected that creature was his lady, and knowing what powers that blue tipped horn carried. So when the golden pondered what he could say, it was not out of loyalty which he spoke. “If she is to remain here at least call her by her true name, Aurelia.” More so he spoke in order to rid himself of the glare he felt the black devil give every time they crossed each other. It was one thing to disrespect the golden, it was quite another to questions his talents. “She is wanted for trial in her old homeland the Edge for her crimes against their allies in the Falls, challenging their lead, and escape.” It was a very matter of fact tone, said flatly with little interest, but the golden was more invested inside than that. Here at least the gold could figuratively slap that black lead for his misjudgment of the golden man’s worth. As he begin to move away the golden pauses…and looks back. It was more out of a desire to have the last laugh than care for those who would guard her. “Oh, and take care, I hear her burns have a rather nasty bite.” A low chuckle rumbles through him, and the golden sets off at a swinging trot, wanting nothing more to do with his stolen fun. OOC :: Permission/Accepted Request to show Beowulf walking away. "speech" RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Aurelia - 10-12-2014
[/quote] RE: maybe i'll be sane for you - Deimos - 10-15-2014 The level of insolence and presumption surged and flared; no sooner had he demanded her reasons did the Corporal challenge her – not to leave, but to stay, embarking down futile rings and flailing ineptitude, and the flowing, thickening barbs of fury swam over his frame. Were he not a specimen, an epitome, of control and restraint, the knots of his sedition would have garroted Deodat, instead, his puncturing stare resonated upon the folly of the fool’s inability to discern reason and fortitude. He didn’t want threats to linger within their walls, he wanted them gone, vanquished, vanished, torn asunder, shorn to ribbons, bones bleached by the sun, hidden beneath the ice, crushed into violent, spoiled fragments, indiscernible dust in the freezing hold: yet, the Corporal had managed to not only override the notion, but he wanted to keep her in their land. For what reason? To what end? Molten, ignited, kindled, the monstrous infidel strung his silent thorns towards the painted idiot, allowed the simmer, the sear, the incantations of his anger to draw near, pervade, surround, only pausing in his disquiet, in his ferocity, in his building crescendo of disapproval and irreverence, to cast one ear towards the wagging tongue of Thranduil. Oddly enough, amongst the gathered, he was the only one who provided anything remotely useful into the ridiculous antics and frantic capriciousness, and he swerved his cranium to regard him in deep speculation, calm and compose the lighted fuse burning in his veins. If he spun any truth, because he didn’t trust the gilded beast, the sentiments were absorbed, snagged, and snarled: Aurelia, on trial in the Edge, capable of burns (and he thought of his home catching on fire, pines and tundra tipped into embers, cinders, and ash; glaciers melting and fumbling, of their members suddenly subjugated to unwinding bits of coiled, serpent interludes because of one moron and his inability to think beyond his irrational calculations). The Lord, the Reaper, the Siberian sovereign, tipped his head towards Thranduil’s retreating form, the only form of respect he could currently bestow, before meshing his ultimatum amongst the world. Rough, built, languished, and layered on abhorrence and loathing, the bestial beat, the savage whispers, the corporeal threat, the satanic opus, of his rapier tones meant brutality, meant promises, meant convictions and creeds – he’d adhere to them even if they couldn’t. “Enough nonsense. One false move, Corporal, and she will be given to the Edge.” If Deodat had no ability to control the femme from burning their palace down, Deimos would. Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch. |