[P] M O N S T E R - 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: [P] M O N S T E R (/showthread.php?tid=17780) |
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M O N S T E R - Reginald - 02-04-2015 <style>.connormain { width: 350px; font-family: 'Open Sans Condensed', sans-serif; font-size: 28px; color: #F6F6F6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 80%; padding: 5px; 0px 0px 0px; } .connorsubh { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 8px; color: #D0D0D0; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 0px; } .connorposta { width: 320px; font-family: cambria; font-size: 12px; color: #020202; text-align: justify; line-height: 110%; padding: 20px; background-color: #f6f6f6; } .connortagz { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 7px; color: #f6f6f6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 8px; line-height: 110%; border-top: 1px solid #fff; border-bottom: 1px solid #fff; } .connorbold b { color: #8E0000; } </style> With all this fever in my mind I could aim for your kerosene eyes
The spell of a new sister wears off; the curse of his deceased mother wanes. A moon hangs absent above a blackened sky, and shadows lay heavy over the sand dunes, the heatwaves of this place. It is scent that guides him across those borders; it is hatred that propels his feet. He stops amongst the sand and the deadened grasses. He dips his head; his body grows still. Skin trembles. He feels the bubble and boiling of it in his stomach; a roiling mass of something he has carried ever since his beloved mother threw him from her in a mess of fluid and placenta. It burned him even then, as he breathed new life--seared its mark into his skin and blood. It bubbled and curdled into jagged edges, poisoning him with its tip, even as he took a branch and lit it with the fire of the heavens, killing a babe in the inferno he invoked. It had pitched against his soul even as he had pitched an intruder into a wild, frothing river, aided by the brawn of his brother. It had seathed within at the taunts of a black spider whore; it had simmered as she bowed to him, bubbling and boiling as she continued to challenge, lipping the edge of the cauldron in his breast even as he fucked her in a mess of rushing hormones and rage. It had blackened into coal, a lodestone as he gazed upon the corpse of his mother, the Shadowmere; it had been caressed into something smooth just as one licks the hot glass, as he had gazed into the amber eyes of an angel with a ruined hoof and his mother’s face. It unravels within him; an old friend and enemy, the blossom of something that unfurls its petals, with every petal laced with burning, blazing pain. It crescendos, loudly in the silence of a moonless night. He gasps--but, no, it is not a gasp. He hisses. It is released, finally, after years of a threat of explosion. It courses through his neck, twisting it from its sockets, pulling a grunt and a cry of agony and ecstacy from the rough, stony lips. It wracks his spine; it crushes legs, hooves, feathers of a man, shedding his hide, sprouting obsidian scales as his lips peel back and expose poison-tipped daggers emergant from his skull. The shadows are thick, this night; there are none to see him writhe in his misery, in his exuberance; there are none to see the monster birthed in a mess of hatred and something sinister. He is unleashed. He goes to hunt. "This is how I talk" Oh, you're just a target in the sky RE: M O N S T E R - NPC - 02-06-2015
@[Reginald]
pictured the tree like this so low but not on-the-ground. Hit me up if you want anything changed! <3 RE: M O N S T E R - Reginald - 02-08-2015 <style>.connormain { width: 350px; font-family: 'Open Sans Condensed', sans-serif; font-size: 28px; color: #F6F6F6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 80%; padding: 5px; 0px 0px 0px; } .connorsubh { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 8px; color: #D0D0D0; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 0px; } .connorposta { width: 320px; font-family: cambria; font-size: 12px; color: #020202; text-align: justify; line-height: 110%; padding: 20px; background-color: #f6f6f6; } .connortagz { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 7px; color: #f6f6f6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 8px; line-height: 110%; border-top: 1px solid #fff; border-bottom: 1px solid #fff; } .connorbold b { color: #8E0000; } </style> With all this fever in my mind I could aim for your kerosene eyes
He glides across sand and dunes, his muscles rippling and perfect, constricting, undulating in the darkness; synchronized and splendid--silent. He breathes a rattler’s breath, and before him scents throb hotly in his vision, for sight and smell and taste have been destroyed, pulverized, only to be rebuilt again into something far more efficient, and exciting. The world is a changed thing to him now, a new sort of playground that is open to his gambol—but no, he is on a mission tonight. Tonight, he looks for scents that he feels against the tongue that slithers from his maw, tentative and calculating, for even in this broken, altered, perfect body of his—his mind remains intact, his memories persistent, his fury a serpent’s wrath now; just as volatile, three times as venomous. It is faint when he catches it, but he latches on swiftly, pulled by the trail of a whore’s feathers. He feels the warmth pulsing in the sand, the aftermath of sunlight; he also feels the drain of a chilled desert’s night upon his back and how it claws at the energy radiating in his muscles. He learns, once and for all, that cold is his enemy. His skepticism of his unicorn brethren and their peculiar preference for northern climes has always, always been right. He must not linger here, in the desert cold. Fortunately, the hunt does not last long. There she is, the harlot of ruin—nestled stupidly amongst the brambles of a shriveled tree, puffed and fluffed and tender, ready for night. He does not see the ugliness of a soft face, the curious fascination of soft breasts; he sees her heat, pulsing and simple, fragrant with bones and blood and meat. Primal urges grip him, both serpentine and equine: a passion for her destruction, a hunger for her flesh, a need for revenge against her transgressions. He did not have a dragon, before. He does not have wings, now. It does not matter--for now, he will have her beating, bloody heart in his mouth. How dare she. Powerful muscles bunch and bulge, and he laughs in his greatness, and it escapes from him as a hiss. Perhaps that is her only warning. He strikes. "This is how I talk" Oh, you're just a target in the sky RE: M O N S T E R - NPC - 02-14-2015
@[Reginald]
RE: M O N S T E R - Reginald - 02-28-2015 <style>.connormain { width: 350px; font-family: 'Open Sans Condensed', sans-serif; font-size: 28px; color: #F6F6F6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 80%; padding: 5px; 0px 0px 0px; } .connorsubh { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 8px; color: #D0D0D0; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 0px; } .connorposta { width: 320px; font-family: cambria; font-size: 12px; color: #020202; text-align: justify; line-height: 110%; padding: 20px; background-color: #f6f6f6; } .connortagz { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 7px; color: #f6f6f6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 8px; line-height: 110%; border-top: 1px solid #fff; border-bottom: 1px solid #fff; } .connorbold b { color: #8E0000; } </style> With all this fever in my mind I could aim for your kerosene eyes
Her blood is foul; it is only victory that makes it sweet upon his tongue. He begins to crave that sweetness, and he is enraged that she pulls herself from him, screeching in his ears much loudly that she would have screeched into the flesh of a horse. Wings beat; feathers dance around them. He does not notice how wood splinters beneath him as he lunges once more for the harpy flesh. Something rolls from the nest, becoming lost in sand; he does not notice. He is fixated by a bloody breast and a wing that he had had only a moment to savor, by claws that scour the air before him, catching his throat and maw. An angered hiss erupts from snake-breath, and he reaches for that breast and shoulder again now; fangs dance across her skin and feathers, pricking her hide, locking in against sweet bone and marrow. The cold grips his scales; he feels his muscles tighten, and though the rage of domination keeps his blood pumping, he knows he runs out of time. And so he yanks his head to the right, throwing the useless, squirming body of the avian bitch; he turns away from the tree in pursuit of her form, how she flops about staining the cold sand with the blood that flows freely from her. She may try to fight him now, even though the battle is won—she is grounded—and he is hungry. He devours. --- It is just as painful as it was before as his body breaks itself and remakes itself in the chill of the desert night. Now there is no exuberant rage to temper the heat of pain—and so his shouts of agony are true and wrenching, and he cannot move for some seconds when he comes back to himself, his body sweating ice and his eyes no longer seeing the pulsing of heat around him. He rolls to his feet—for he has hooves now. He shakes his mane from his eyes—for his mane has returned. He rises to his feet, aware of a certain roughness to his movements—something far removed from the graceful, elegant power of scales upon sand. He will have to fix this. He sees the remains of the harpy—nothing but blood-spatters on the ground. He feels his stomach full of meat, warm and uncomfortable, glowing with is victory. He snorts, softly, leaving the mess behind him—approaching the ruined tree that lies broken in the sand. He sees one of her eggs. He takes it. He does not know what compels him to snatch this young one--perhaps further vengeance drives his movements. The egg is collected; the harpy is dead; his revenge is satisfied; and finally he quits the cold night. NPC--No need to reply again! Thank you for your help! "This is how I talk" Oh, you're just a target in the sky |