[O] Residual. - 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] Residual. (/showthread.php?tid=17343) |
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Residual. - Quinn - 01-13-2015
OOC - Okay! This is where Quinn dies. Shes laying somewhere in the thistle meadow and she's got a substancial wound in her chest plus some other wounds. I will wait about a day before I reply with her final post, so you are free to continue the thread after she's dead (if you wish). Also, if anyone kills her off instead of letting her die slowly, that is okay too :) PM if you have any questions ^^, RE: Residual. - Volterra - 01-13-2015 VOLTERRA you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far His over-sensitive nostrils flare, detecting the smell of blood. It is an iron tang, one that draws the young colt like a moth to a flame. In the future it will incite a desire to fight, but right now it is simply an idle curiosity that he is keen to pursue. He moves through the Meadow, tufty tail swishing against his stout young thighs and his stocky legs hauling him along at a heavy canter, eager to obtain knowledge on the source of the smell. He is still keen to add to his mental encyclopedia, and there's only so many wild animals he can observe before his eager mind hungers for something different.
The young leviathan soon sees the source of the smell and approaches quickly, his face torn between concern and morbid interest. It is a mare, a unicorn, her forward-facing horn like a jagged spear into the heavens, a horn that could probably slay opponents where they stand. But this woman does not look like she could fight off so much as a fly; her chest is a mangled mess and her body is littered with a myriad of wounds. Volterra is young, a mere handful of weeks old, yet he still has an instinctual concept of death, of the fact that every creature here is simply a soul inside a meat sack that will one day expire. He has never seen death firsthand, but he somehow knows that this mare is not long for this world. Before long her consciousness will be claimed by the great dragon god and her corpse will be left to the predators. Still, he cannot help but feel a pang of sorrow for the stranger with what little empathy beats in his chest; this could be somebody's mother, and he pictures Confutatis in her place. How distraught he would be! But, he reasons, his dam is a vampire queen; she is as good as immortal in his eyes. "What happened, miss?" His voice cannot be described as kind - he seems incapable of that, even now - but it's almost gentle, soothing. He cannot help her, but perhaps he can prevent her dying alone, can keep her mind occupied with speech even as her body begins to crumble into the abyss. RE: Residual. - Abraham - 01-13-2015
table by whit RE: Residual. - Mauja - 01-14-2015
i am the vanguard of your destruction
He didn't know which came first—the scents, the sounds, or the visions in his mind. His eyes on wings saw something. They saw something, and Mauja, who had been doing something, anything, nothing, didn't know what to do. He couldn't do anything. Just stared vacantly ahead, mind floating on the steady beating of four wings. He recognized two of the three, and in the back of his head marveled at how alike they were—all black and white. Black bodies. White, faces, legs, but not their hearts. And blood, such red blood, and the sickening crunch of bones breaking, and the crackle of fire eating away at still-wet flesh. A child, a yearling, and a body. The yearling, making the body just a body. Taking away the spirit that lived beneath the injured, broken skin. Taking away her name, her breath, her memories. Taking away her life. He had no fucking right. Not a single, fucking right, to maul and dance and cackle and paint with her blood as his colors and her body his canvas. He had no right to burn her before she was even dead, mockery and sacrilege. The spaces in Mauja's chest—the ones that had been nothing but a slowly aching void—filled with fire and anger. And the darkness roared, blotted out the grief. The marble statue came to life, suddenly turning on his haunches, throwing himself into the motion; frosted hooves beat a quickly melting trail across the face of the world as he raced towards someone he was way too late to save anyway. [ This is kind of short because THINGS - flails - The purpose of this has to wait two weeks. :| ] RE: Residual. - Quinn - 01-15-2015
OOC - I feel oddly satisfied with her death. And with that done, you are free to continue the thread and do whatever you wish to her body :) Thank you so much for helping me btw! <3 @[Volterra] @[Abraham] @[Mauja] RE: Residual. - Volterra - 01-15-2015 Wasn't sure if Mauja was charging at them with intent to hurt, or just to run towards Quinn? So been kinda vague :D VOLTERRA you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far He continues to look at the mare, but she doesn't seem overly keen on replying. The colt is unsure what to do - should he go and find help? Offer to kill her himself, however the hell that's done? He stands awkwardly, tail swishing, crimson gaze nervous.
Then Abraham arrives, and then he slaughters. "No!" erupts from the colt's jaws as he lunges forwards, but the heat of the dragon's flame is too intense for him to get close enough to save the mare, not that he could do a great deal anyway. Even at this young age, Volterra is not against killing, but he is against the killing of the helpless, of the injured and the feeble. There is no glory in this murder; no glory in the way the older male revels in the mare's agony, like the way a child may torture a defenceless insect. He did not defeat her himself - he has proven nothing about his strength, except perhaps that he is only capable of finishing off somebody else's dirty work. It is nothing to be proud of, to slaughter something that cannot fight back. It is akin to killing a foal, something helpless, something that can do nothing but whimper as it is tortured, and a far cry from the glory of battle that Volterra had thought Abraham and his dragon capable of. How he had admired them, thinking how beautiful they would look upon war-torn fields, going blow for blow with healthy opponents that test them to their limits. But this - this is nothing more than the most primal form of bullying, worlds away from the battlefield and the victory surge of felling an equal. It is not the work of a Leviathan. It is the work of a coward. The colt's crimson eyes flash with something akin to danger, albeit it is only the first fragment of what will blossom into cold red fury as he ages. "She was helpless," he hisses. Despite the situation, he cannot tear his eyes away from the smoking ruin of the mare, cannot stop his nostrils flaring to absorb the stench of burning flesh. Had Abraham felled the unicorn himself, in the heat of battle with naught but the strength of his body, then Volterra would have admired him, revered him. But instead, he acted as an opportunist; a vulture, a blot on the world in the form of a scavenger. The young titan cannot respect that. He had damn near hero-worshipped Abraham when he first met him, but that has burnt away along with the unicorn mare's flesh. "She couldn't fight back. Where's the glory in that?" Eyes narrow, ears flickering backwards as he looks down at the singed corpse. If only she had been healthy! If Abraham had slaughtered her when she was fully functional, Volterra would have idolised him even more, the way he would idolise an older brother. They are similar; their fur, white on black, their natures, warmongering and arrogant, yet the young behemoth would never slay something that could not fight back, unless he himself had weakened it first. The mare looks at him as she dies; he will never forget that as long as he lives, the way the light dies from her eyes as her soul flees her body. It is haunting, and perhaps others would call it disturbing, but the colt is oddly intrigued by the process. The pounding of hooves steals his attention and he snaps his skull around to see a spotted unicorn charging towards them. "Watch out," he exclaims, because despite his anger he doesn't particularly want to see Abraham gored by the spotted one's horn. Frame shifts towards the older colt, recklessly - stupidly - placing himself between Abraham and Mauja. Why put himself in a guarding position between a charging unicorn and the man who has just slaughtered a defenceless foe? It is simple instinct, an urge he cannot crush down. Let him tangle with an equal opponent, see what balls he possesses! urges his mind. But, for reasons unknown, his body has other ideas and the young warlord shifts like a shield between the charging one and his soiled hero, grimacing in anticipation of feeling horn and chest crash into his still-small body. @[Abraham] @[Mauja] RE: Residual. - Abraham - 01-15-2015
table by whit RE: Residual. - Mauja - 02-02-2015
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ GEHH honestly I didn't *mean* to legit take two weeks in replying :x life just ate me up until now... ] Familiarity only deepens the disappointment. The anger. The numbing, blinding sense of rage, of blue curtains of fire erupting in his mind—obliterating mind, thought, heart. He had no right. He had no reason, because there was never a reason for this. Blowing a hole in someone else's life. Taking life. His face is a snarling mask, his eyes full of rage. Beneath it, he couldn't recall ever having been this angry, riding a violent high that burned up all the pain he felt. She had had friends. Maybe children. Those who would miss her, and mourn her, and never forget her, their hearts forever whispering this dull, agonizing pain as they beat, beat, beat, beat on without her. What had it been worth? Why had he done it? He hadn't seemed like that when he was younger. Mauja had killed more than he cared to admit, but he knew he had had no right. No reason. No nothing. Just the hollow act itself, filling up an empty heart with blood that wasn't his. They switched positions around the burning corpse, a jumping game to take the first blow, and his black heart snarled at them. So eager to take the first blow, so eager to feel his wrath, the only kind of justice he knew. Perhaps the memory of pain would keep them from doing this again. "FILTH!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap and his eyes lightning. His breath was too hot in his throat, like fire wanting to be spit out—and the dragon, the fucking dragon, flashed before his face, wings spread and belly aching with flame. A single, piercing moment of fear. Mauja knew the memory of pain, too. And he knew the power of the fear of pain. Black-rimmed ears slicked to a thick neck. Fuck that. He had fire too. He had fire and he was angry, so ruthlessly he slashed his horn at the white creature, wanting to tear her from her throne in the heavens and watch her fall to the ground like snow. Maybe he didn't want her to die. Maybe, because he knew the void she'd leave in Abraham's dark heart, and the silence she would leave in his mind. Maybe he didn't want her to die because he feared that silence in his own thoughts, and even in his near-blind wrath pity stayed him from playing his most violent cards. Abraham had no right to kill. Mauja had no right to kill either. But he could damn well give the youngster a hell of pain to remember his transgressions by. So with a wordless bellow that was similar to why? he lowered his head and angled his horn slightly aside, aiming to barrel full force into the dog's face using his own right shoulder as a battering ram. [ @[Volterra], @[Abraham] ] RE: Residual. - Volterra - 02-03-2015 VOLTERRA you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far He doesn't know what to say back to Abraham's words - he knows what he wants to convey, but doesn't know how to articulate it. How can he put into words his strange take on murder? If this woman had been brought down by the older one's own hooves, then yes, but it's the fact that somebody else did the hard part that rankles with the beastling. It isn't right, but he doesn't know how to explain that, how to legitimize the thoughts in his head in the form of words.
But all of that goes out of his head as the unicorn charges. Abraham replaces Volterra as the shield, and the colt won't lie - he's a little bit happy that the older stallion wants to protect him, even if it's out of instinct more than empathy. The burns on his forelegs and the still-livid scars on his back and shoulder demonstrate the somewhat quirky nature of the two monochrome males' relationship, but that previous meeting is pushed to the back of the young titan's mind when Mauja charges. Abraham exclaims the unicorn's name, but it doesn't seem to do a great deal of good. The great blue horn slashes towards the flying dragon, and Volterra smothers a wince. Safe to say that's probably not going to go down very well with the white female - the colt's burns testify to her temper. But this time it's not the youngster on the receiving end. This time, he is simply an onlooker. With morbid interest he watches the two men, wondering if this skirmish will escalate to all-out battle. He has never watched a true fight before, and what better way to learn his trade for the future than to watch two stallions with fire in their blood and ice in their hearts? Crimson gaze watches as Mauja's horn aims for Abraham, attention darting between the two opponents as he drinks in everything about them. Their postures, their attacks, the way they move - everything is greedily devoured by the young warmaster, filed away for future use. He shifts aside to give the men more space, a simple spectator now, a Roman gladiator baying for the blood of the animals in the arena. "" @[Abraham] @[Mauja] RE: Residual. - Abraham - 02-08-2015
table by whit @[Volterra] @[Mauja] RE: Residual. - Mauja - 02-11-2015
i am the vanguard of your destruction
It's a mistake and he knows it—knew it in the same moment that he decided to throw his horn in her direction, because he knew what that glow in her belly was, and he knew how much it would fucking hurt. But he did it anyway, to show his conviction, that he was not afraid, and then he simply had to pay for it. Do nothing, unless you are willing to face the consequences, and his world erupted into a familiar, nerve-fraying, heart-shattering pain. For the first heartbeat of it it was just hot, shocking the body for a blessed, split second of agony at a bearable level, but that's all you get: half a second's respite. After that, you catch up, and it's like someone bludgeoning you in the head. And the scent comes just a moment after. It blinded him, and his scream tore out of the owls' distant throats instead of his own, because fuck that he was going to let them know how it hurt—how it pulsed, how it ate, how it transformed every, single, fucking, moment into raw pain, every breath and every beat coursing through broken nerves that shrieked in his mind. Distance to the memories had dulled them, had made him forget just how exquisite an agony it was. Within, he trembled with it, but outside, he remained rigid, moving, drunk on conviction and powered by belief—legs moved, sides heaved, but eyes saw nothing but half-shadows in a dark world as the pain devoured him. Dried skin broke, blackened edges stained red with blood, the air biting and fuck he doesn't know how much longer he can hold on, but he be damned before he'd let them see how it hurt—before he was weak before them—before he'd let them know they had won. If he could lie to them, if he could trick them, he'd do it. Fuck it he'd do it, and as his harsh breath pounded in and out of his choking lungs he barely felt the collisions of unsullied flesh; a shoulder against a thigh, a hoof smacking against his own thigh and crushing blood vessels mercilessly, promising a bruise that was infinitesimal compared to the charred line drawn haphazardly over his back. He was weak because he was grateful Abraham didn't come after him again; turned himself, slung his body around and stood rigid, regal, tall, the white perfection of his back sullied by raw, red flesh and stinking, blackened ridges, desperation and stubbornness the only things keeping him from breaking and fleeing. Besides, he had nowhere to run, and in stillness he could trick the pain into receding. And maybe he was wrong anyway—"She was going to die whether it was my doing or not! Would you rather her suffer?!"—but he didn't want to listen, because his heart was a gaping wound the size of the galaxy, still bleeding from where someone else had taken from him. His ragged breathing punctuated his silence, the mad glint of his eyes slowly receding; did he speak truth? Had the mare been too far gone? Stiffly, posture cold, he turned his neck and defied the pain, and stared at the smoldering ruin that had been Quinn. "You did not need to desecrate her," he finally said, winter's cold bite in his harsh voice as he stood there as if his back hadn't been been reduced to ruin again, as if there wasn't any pain in his body just in his fucking mind, a display of strength he didn't know he still had in him. "You did not need to revel in her ruin like a dog!" So maybe, just maybe, the blue rage in his eyes had faded, and maybe he had been wrong, but some things he was not wrong about. Fuck, it hurt, leeching at his patience and his resolve. "Don't speak to me of mercy if you cannot deliver it with respect," he finally spat, viciously quenching the trembling his body wanted to put on, wishing for the adrenaline to devour him again and take the pain away. [ @[Abraham], @[Volterra] ] RE: Residual. - Volterra - 02-13-2015 VOLTERRA you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far The fight heats up, quite literally - Volterra watches with undisguised glorious greed as the spotted unicorn's back explodes into fire. It is quite the sight, but the stallion makes no noise and for that Volterra can admire him. Like the colt, he shows no pain in the face of explosive burning agony - the beastling still holds the scars on his fetlocks from his run-in with the white's fire, so he knows what a unique brand of torture dragonfire is. In his young life he has known nothing like it, something so agonising it made him wish he could peel off his own skin simply to rid himself of the ruined, blackened patches. He hears distant owls screaming, but does not make a link between that and the spotted one.
He can smell the pungent reek of scorched flesh, nostrils flaring to inhale the aroma and file it away for the future. Burning back-skin smells different to burning leg-skin, he idly notes. Definitely something to observe. The hearty slap of the two stallions' bodies colliding is nothing compare to the crackle of singed hair, and Volterra cannot tear his eyes from the exposed, raw meat of the ice man. But still he says nothing. Mauja vocalises everything the white-faced one had wanted to but lacked the eloquency to put into words; crimson gaze shifts to Abraham, curious to see how the other man reacts. Will he wish to continue the fight, to press the advantage of a scorched foe, or will he seek to defend himself and his violent actions? A silent observer, the colt simply watches, drinking in the scene and trying to guess at its outcome. "" @[Abraham] @[Mauja] |