[O] filled with poison, blessed with rage - 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] filled with poison, blessed with rage (/showthread.php?tid=16572) |
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filled with poison, blessed with rage - Deimos - 12-06-2014 The Reaper challenged, provoked, dared, opposed, and defied, and all it left him was the searing harpoon of his own ineptitude. He faded away from the unraveled contortions of their ill-fated meeting, the announcement of a new Lady and an old one shuffled, pardoned away, like the GildedBlade’s strength hadn’t mattered and neither would his in eventuality: he too would perish like dust, like ash, like earth, back into the ground and forgotten. No legacy bestowed, no memories cast, all the sheep collected and numbed to the changing of hands and thrones, smiling and laughing and ignorant as the world tumbled in its constant, swirling chaos. Perhaps this was what irked, irritated, and vexed him the most; for all his brawn, for all his might, for all his vigilance, the Time God assured him he had no control; every decision, every Machiavellian design, had been laid out for him since the day he was born. He’d been chosen by the devil’s symphony, Lucifer’s sacrilege, Mephistopheles delight the moment he took his first breath, sculpted, molded into isolation, into stealing away from family so they weren’t harmed, chiseling away at himself until he was an indifferent vessel, a reticent husk, with no regard, with no emotion, with no feeling towards others because he’d kill them, he’d take their final heartbeat, he’d steal their last thought at a whisper’s touch, a vile caress, a fiendish whirl. But it had to be wrong, for he was no lemming, no mindless lamb, no shuffling ignoramus, because he always made his own decisions – calculated, examined, investigated with cold vigilance and hardened resolve. He captured chaos and curled it in his fist, he waited with soulless conviction for the right moment to strike, and he brutalized, he pulsed, he craved and relished the paradigms of unholy vows like a rapture, like a reverie, like a sin, clinging and plunging his knife through the thickened diatribes of old, pious men and their virtuous ways. He was the ivory snow’s black blade, the terrain’s pervading, nefarious delight, the bewitching, alluring, beguiling precipice of danger and distinction, and he carved away the wiles, the deliverance, the rectitude of moral creatures. The beast refused to believe in destiny, in fate, in some otherworldly divinity bestowing them scripture, that their losses, their casualties, their faults and flaws had always been written, they’d been pre-determined to lose, lose, and lose again, watch their home get torn away from them, witness their foals be captured, tied and tethered, seen their allies, companions, taken into pestilent vows, chained and fettered because another commanded it. They’d been faulted by their own weaknesses, by their own failures, by their own mistakes and mishaps. If left by the deceitful vows of the stars, they might as well have given up altogether, formed a silent stance and gazed as the world careened around them, lost to the perils of fate and providence. Deimos was no idle whim of fortune, no monster of kismet, no saint of serendipity; if the hands and wheels of time yearned for him to conform to their scripted details, they’d have to break him first. The brooding behemoth settled back into an age-old routine: isolation, bleak, detached, and forgotten, ignoring the wholesome vestiges of Birdsong’s reign, clambering towards the highest rise upon the highest peak. His penetrating stare surveyed his vast domain and its eternal containments, the bombardments of stone and rock and rubble that would be there long after they’d all been cast aside by their patron deity, brewing his latest frustration through the simmering bout of his blood and the poisonous essence of his presence. Thereafter, he removed himself from the open terrain, settled deep into the recesses of a nearby cavern, so no one else could feel his rage, his animosity, his contempt, his abhorrence, but the silent earth. His wrath unfurled, uncurled, without restraint, scaled, licked, savaged the walls of the grotto, covered and scaled, caressed and obliterated, the heartless fathoms of his distinct, vicious reverie; loathing and brooding, a heart stolen by steel and endeavored into fervent, wanton yearning for something he always thought he had: power. [Open! :D] RE: filled with poison, blessed with rage - Tangere - 12-09-2014
RE: filled with poison, blessed with rage - Deimos - 12-21-2014 Winter damnation and glacial vows, an unholy venture set aside for queries, for questions, for virulent inquisitions. Hollowed capacities, clinging and absorbed in the slaughtering condemnation of his malicious reverie, were torn, shambled, and shredded through the murky, springsong abyss; his Siberian fuselage drifted over to the mare – another of their Menders – and watched as his idle brewing unraveled. He stewed in malicious chords of unbroken silence, vicious strings, choking strands, and suffocating threads ensnared, failing to comprehend, unaware. Hanging moments and streamlined seconds were caught in taut, rigid contortion, for he had every intention of prompting her to leave, pervading the surroundings with naught but his ambitious, potent coils, perniciously craving the puissant devices of a devil’s rancor: yearning to be free of judgment, allowed to ruminate over lost dominance and regaining superiority. It was more familiar, more comfortable, to drag her away from his searing edges, to bestow rapier brevity and soulless might, to harpoon in unrelenting predilection until everyone disappeared and he’d be left in the discarded remnants, stifled, resolute, secluded over and over again. But even the essence, the undulations, the catastrophic, chaotic balance of his invocations didn’t disenchant her, the silver creature simply failed to flee, failed to escape, the discontent, the vehemence, the acerbic traces, of his carnivore abyss. What was more vexing, the fact he couldn’t grasp supremacy, or his presence no longer sent them running? The difficult angle was to chain himself deeper into the walls, into the heathen vows, into the sullen symphonies and permit her presence to stray amidst the bounty of his baleful, wicked entity: but then he thought of how distant he was to nearly every creature in his empire. The ones he adored, beloved, were few and far between, members of his family, of rain and death, or beasts who’d held the same fury as he all those seasons before, whittling away their commotion and violence into the strength, the perseverance of the barbaric clan. Was this how the ridiculous Ophelia had earned her followers, the winks, the smiles, the virtuous rejoicing of her ascension when they didn’t even know her, when they slinked and slunk through ignorance? What had he obtained, merited, in his time within his throne? Further seclusion, desolation, sitting amidst a throne far, far, far above and away from all their winsome glory and paralyzing triumphs, sinking into shadows and stones? Was this what he missed, procuring trust and defiance, faith, and conviction? Or were those built upon all his actions, all his runes, all his protecting vows and guardian hostilities, sharpened and sculpted as he carved death into their enemies’ bones? He didn’t know – perhaps the comprehension was far beyond his reach. Too many moments spent adrift and aloof, indifferent and apathetic, scaling and scorching apertures and holy endeavors, never acquiring need for conversation except when required, building and burrowing deeper into his sequestered hold; and maybe he was just as bad as he’d been before he met Huyana, too entrenched in the savagery, in the sinister boughs, to see beyond nefarious minds and seditious splendor. Even so, he dragged the iron slate of his stare over to the querying femme, granted the smallest, the minute, traces of acceptance, a piercing echo, a daunting shade, of the truth. “The Basin is fine.” Because it always would be: strong, vigilant, enduring, no matter when he inhaled his last breath or when the empire burned. He, like all of them, was just a mere placeholder in the constant, abhorrent reel of change. [Open! :D] RE: filled with poison, blessed with rage - Brisé - 12-21-2014 always a villain
even when I'm not
Perhaps she was not ready for this. It was all too much, too fast. Brisé was not adjusting well to herd life. She had only met the Nightshade, of whom she trusted, and a spindly young colt of whom she had shut down the moment her eyes rolled upon him. All the defenses she broke down had built back up instantly at the sight of a foal. A harmless young child that would do no harm to her and yet she had frozen her thawed heart at the mere scent of his innocence. Why? Why did Brisé shut out everyone upon meeting them. There was no need to, or maybe there was and she didn't know it. Why had she left her home to begin with? Was she chasing after ghosts or afraid of something? Not knowing who she was before was tearing her apart piece by piece. How long was it until the beast she had forged from steel and ice tore out of her heart and lunged for her sanity? Her compassion? How long would it be until Brisé was a hollow shell, alone and freezing in the tundra surrounded by souls who would never understand her struggle, her torment? There was nothing she could do, her memory was gone and there was no getting it back. She could try to fake it didn't bother her and drag on with her miserable life, trying to create new memories to fill in for the old. But it came down to the fact she would not be able to, there would always be this nagging feeling of emptiness. There would always be a piece missing to her. Coding © Henley RE: filled with poison, blessed with rage - Tangere - 01-10-2015 She fought the urge to shiver and walk in the opposite direction of him and his cloak of misery. What a maddening individual, she quietly thought to herself. His attitude inspired an uncomfortable-ness in her bones, settling under her flesh. She cannot rightly just simper away like a fool as his stone eyes slither to meet hers, though she’d like to. The silver mare simply stares at him while he offers this vague disinterested answer. What a dick. Her face scrunches like a bewildered child’s might, the wrinkles quickly stiffening again as she remembers herself. He is not a friend; he is simply another pawn in this government – a leading pawn, but still a pawn. The Basin is the captain of their reins, each and every one of her love-slaves, a purpose they’re all more than satisfied to serve (or so she assumes). He is nothing like Illynx was when she would meet her amongst the shadows, stones and pine smell. She doesn’t dwell on the matter. Thankfully someone chimes from behind them, a brilliantly colorful girl with dangerous looking boney shanks jutting from her skeleton and through her skin. Again she feels like shivering and taking a step back from them, that ‘oh yuck, a snake’ sort of shiver; she means no offense with her internal musings, they cannot be hushed within her mind. Tangere cannot help but adorn her face with a gleeful sort of grin, one that has been bound and hiding thus far. The shiny, sharp looking girl approached without hesitation, her focus not with Tangere. The silver mare’s muscles loosened under her shaggy patched coat. She said nothing and simply let the silence eat up the tall dark woman’s question. He is always like that, she wanted to say in answer to the blatantness, but thought it an ill decision at the last second. This group of three were not focused on her, it’s wiser to keep it that way, she thinks. She couldn’t help but notice that her brightly emotional face and her cow-eyes are the opposite of her conversational companions. Their faces were granite; hard, lacking anything but the most basic features – their depth a secret, their emotions (if any) are concealed behind veiled, abysmal eyes. Both of them. This time the shiver cannot be held back and she can feel the involuntary wiggle travel down her spine. When the energy reaches her tail she whips it from hip to hip. RE: filled with poison, blessed with rage - Deimos - 01-17-2015 His social deficiencies reared their isolated shards again, for no sooner had he given her a blunt, succinct response, did the silver mare wrinkle her muzzle in distaste, in dissatisfaction. The reticent beast was unaware of where he’d made some crucial error, and only that he had, like so many times before, been bested by some unseen, unknown gallantry he’d never acquired the taste for. If the Mender had been looking for someone to wax poetical with, to serenade, to diatribe on endless quagmires and unrelenting pursuits, she would have faired better with anyone else within the Basin. The monster had been too equipped with other potencies to even think about drowning himself in iniquities of conversation and sweet nothings; his powers drummed through warfare, through calculations, through machinations. She’d receive no florid designs from him, no capricious simpers and smiles, no charming attributes and sunshine radiance – he provided the icy caverns, the glacial walls, the massive stones with other dominations and supremacies: death, demise, quick, swift, protection, an impassive, detached fortress who would stop at nothing to protect those within his empire. If this wasn’t enough for her, perhaps Tangere could search for another rock to discourse with, one who gleamed and gave her everything she wished to hear. She said nothing more, asked nothing more, and so he twisted his cranium away, the Reaper demoted into shells and shackles, into silence and disregard, because he couldn’t fathom, couldn’t relate, couldn’t posture anything other than danger and quiet. It was his weakness, his failing, why asps and snakes slithered into serpentine avenues and why he never wandered down their same paths. The Lord’s flaw always seemed to collide, callously, heathenously, around his trenchant designs, and no matter what he muttered, what he crooned, what he murmured, the message was always misconstrued. Perhaps this was what he was missing all along, but he could never scratch the surface of. Lucifer’s sword had been buried and burrowed too deep into hollowed halls, had marched away from groups and gatherings, had locked himself into rasping, grating parlors ever since he’d discovered the magic, the pernicious, puissant invocations, but never asked for any understanding. He stole, he coveted, he massacred, he existed. Had another not come upon them, the King may have left altogether, drifted further and further into the outcrops until all they saw was a barren landscape and a hint of demise, too far gone in his attempts, in his faults, to do anything but escape. The other cretin roaming into their sights was an unknown femme, and curiosity, intrigue, delved too quickly for him to do anything but conform to a rigid stare, a bestial examination, a barbaric scrutiny. She was all barbs and thorns, but her features told a similar story to his own: blank, indifferent, nonchalant, as if everything were a disinterested fold, and every quandary, every note, remained centered and inward. Like a mirror, like a reflection of his own apathetic face, he drew his puncturing gaze back to her fathoms, tilted his head a mere fraction, and noted she’d be someone he could relate to. She was hidden. She was concealed. She was furtive. She held more to her abilities, she held fast to her designs, and the specious interludes ensured she wouldn’t cross into deep factions or attempt to submerge into his forlorn endeavors. It was nearly a comfort to know she wouldn’t be prying, wouldn’t be scalding, wouldn’t be amassing a series of queries he couldn’t respond to. Ice could relate to the chilling ire of his expanse. So when her question meandered through the cavern, he murmured only the blunt truth of his taut, coiled, curled core. “Irritation.” Presuming that response would also be misunderstood, he only added a minor notation, cementing it with a curt, rapt candor. “With myself.” Then, the inquisitions unfolded again, prosperous and brewing, a cauldron of possibilities touching and gliding over Machiavellian means, for he knew naught of this mare’s existence until now. “Who are you?” [@[Brisé] @[Tangere] |