[P] Nothing is Impenetrable - 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] Nothing is Impenetrable (/showthread.php?tid=19792) |
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Nothing is Impenetrable - Zandora - 06-12-2015
RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Rohan - 06-12-2015
rohan
how fickle my heart
As if the blackness of night isn’t hindering his vision enough, Frostfall does not disappoint in her blustery storms. Tempestuous clouds, lined with ribbons of silver as the moon’s light manages to seep between the bare patches, churn angrily overhead—swollen and heavy with the promise of their winter blizzard. Before long the white flakes are tumbling from their mother tempest—slow at first, but the flurries quickly swell into roiling whirlwinds, whipping to mold together, thickening in their number as they fall.
Rohan arches his neck and back, bowing his strong body against the frosty breath of wind that dances its own chaotic ballet over the arctic tundra. The turn of the cold season has thickened his coat, giving him an ample covering to compete with the frigid frost that gusts through the land—even so, his skin is not entirely immune from the icy fingers of winter’s grasp. It nips at him, leaving him numb. Jaw muscles flex as the Warlander clenches his teeth, scowling into the snow-streaked disarray that has become his vision. After departing from the fog-shrouded borders of World’s Edge, he had simply left—to who or to where, he had not cared. He had simply just wanted to leave. Not necessarily because it had seemed an awful place, in contrary it offers some interesting prospects, but Rohan knows that he will have some thinking to do in his consideration. And with the presence of his hosts lingering at his shoulder (figuratively, of course), it is not a decision that he wishes to make with any sort of haste. He intends to do the opposite, in fact. No rush, right? Still, with every step that he takes, it becomes clear that perhaps this had not been the night to embrace the wildness of Helovia. Nature is sure giving him all its untamed glory. A weaker creature might have recoiled at the fierceness of the snow, at the stinging of the wind, and seek shelter in some place warm and comfortable (a wiser creature, perhaps). But Rohan is strong, confident, and he pushes forward—nearly urging the storm with a silent scowl that screams ‘is that all you’ve got?!’ into the blustery recesses of this stormy night. At last, nature seems to give in. The father north he travels, Rohan notices how the blizzard gradually thins, until it eventually dissipates altogether—leaving to harass others nestled more to the south. His pace slowing to a halt, the Warlander takes a moment to shake vigorously, dispelling the layer of snow that had cloaked his body. It is still impossibly cold, but the hairy stallion finds this much more bearable, the swagger in his step returning as he continues forward, snorting the wet air from his nostrils. It isn’t much farther before something—someone—catches his eye. As dark as her hide is, he likely would have missed her, were it not for the contrast of her mane, tail, and markings. Purple? Well, now he’s seen everything! Flicking his lengthy tail about his flanks, Rohan strides purposefully forward, keen on discovering what sort of genetic strangeness has happened here. “Beautiful night, no?” His deep voice disturbs the frigid chill of Frostfall air, reaching the mare before he comes to face her, standing diagonal to her shoulder. His tone, while broad, is clipped at the end—intent to not linger for long on such pleasantries. “Though I wouldn’t venture much farther south if I were you,” he adds, mock cynicism leaking into the manner of his voice. notes; you're good:) I'm excited too! tag; @[Zandora] “Speech.” RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Zandora - 06-22-2015
RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Rohan - 07-09-2015
rohan
how fickle my heart
The mare’s wandering gaze does not go unnoticed. The antlered stallion seems to puff out beneath her eye, like a bird would when trying to impress a mate—proud, bold, and alluring. Not that he feels like he needs to impress her—the young hairy unicorn has many things to learn in this strange and wild world, but self-esteem certainly isn’t one of them—but he does love to feel flattered by a mare’s sensual, animalistic desires. Rohan is not expertly practiced in the art of reading others, deciphering their face and picking it part to expose their thoughts, but he understands enough to know that there seems to be no disappointment in her gaze. If there is desire though, he hopes to soon find out.
She speaks to him, drawing his green gaze from the pleasing curves of her thighs and body and back to her face—the stark purple of her eyes intense and piercing despite their lack of a pupil (or perhaps that only sharpens the effect?) in any case, the dunalino finds himself under scrutiny—something he is not entirely opposed of. One side of his brow rises amusingly at her comment, his fluted ears tilting forward with the sound of her subdued laughter. His low chuckle joins hers, but it is short and soon gives way to the rougher tones of his voice. “Not your forte?” The Warlander muses, flicking the dark cream of his thick tail around his flanks before he continues. “Then how ironic that we should find ourselves here, in this wasteland of ice and snow. I would have thought to find you in the southernmost parts of Helovia this time of the year,” the brightness of his eyes catch the glistening light of the stars overhead, the moon’s soft glow framing his rugged features and enhancing them in sharp, bold lines, “Surely it would be more to your liking?” His tone lilts in a way that doesn’t demand an answer, although his ears are trained should she wish to give him one. It is merely observations that he makes, not an interrogation—what she wishes to inflict upon herself is her own business. He could hardly be less bothered. The purple and black mare continues, enticing another chuckle from the depths of the stallion’s chest, this one heartier than before. “I would not doubt your capability, sweetheart, but your sensibility,” he eyes her with a cynical smirk twisting his dark lips, “still, be my guest if you dare to brave it—especially given your apparent aversion for snow.” His voice is pointed as it drawls to a lazy and gradual close, his eyes narrowing briefly before he draws back. Whatever the case may be, the Warlander would certainly enjoy the view should she decide to march away from him and into the colder clutches of winter. He considers it a win-win situation either way. “‘Such a stallion’?” Rohan repeats wittily, “Well my dear, I suppose it depends on what that particular description entails,” his wry smirk deepens, one side of his brow rising as his eyes question her with enquiries of mirth and amusement. From his initial approach, the subtle shift in the mare’s demeanor had not missed his attention. From rigid ice she seems to melt, sultry voice of satin and barbs wrapping his mind in hidden weapons; and he is more than ready to play her little game. Arching the thick muscle of his neck, the Warlander simpers with mischievous glee. “My name is Rohan,” he concedes, announcing himself into the dark wilderness like the proud vagabond he has become, “And what is yours, lovely? I don’t suppose you would leave that to the wiles of my imagination.” He chuckles, eyes dancing with the promise of play. Of course, he could draw conclusions perfectly well himself—beautiful and fantastical conclusions—but wouldn’t it be more fun if she were to play along with him? notes; so so sorry for the lateness! At least I seem to have more muse than I thought I would heh (tagging because it's only been forever xD) tag; @[Zandora] “Speech.” RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Zandora - 07-21-2015
RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Rohan - 07-30-2015
rohan
how fickle my heart
The black and purple mare confirms his assumptions to her weather preferences, the smoky chuckle of her voice intertwining with words of poor decisions and humor (to which the Warlander can only agree, letting slip a wry, nearly mocking smile along his lips), and he feels the boundless, feeding pride of his overconfidence swell (invariably) within his breast. However, the dark siren continues with an inquiry of her own, questioning the reasons behind his motives and the circumstances that have found them here. “Never mind about me—my story is not nearly as exciting as yours,” he side-steps her curiosity with a practiced and habitual ease, the broadness of his voice hard beneath the velvet, a silent and immovable warning that guards his petty little secrets.
Fortunately, they do not dwell on this topic for long, allowing the devil’s curiosity to slip from their fingers like the fast, silent pull of silk (and he watches it fall with a withering, commending glare as it shrinks into the abyss). As they continue, the bright green of his eyes settles comfortably on her face, tracing the lines and curves, wandering. So entranced is he—the immoral weakness of a man, willing victim to the seemingly innate whims and wiles of a woman—that the stallion is quite caught off-guard when the mare suddenly lunges at him. He feels the pressure of her horn at his throat, the pointed tip sharp and threatening against the vulnerable, beating flesh of his skin. He swallows against it, the flash of surprise dwindling quickly from his features and fading into a more amused, cynical expression. “I don’t question you, sweetheart,” his tone is hard and suspicious, although there is a light in his eye that clings to his play—this game that they dance with each other—and he is ever so eager to continue their wily designs. She drags the crown of her weapon further down his body, and he leans into it with a simpering smile, driven by curiosity and the adrenaline that fires his veins. Only when she pulls away does Rohan feel his chest expand and his lungs fill again with a full breath of the night’s chilled air. From beneath the shadow of his rugged brow he watches her, the movement of her lips and the glint of his eyes (not much different than his own), his crooked smirk deepening with her expressed desire to be his guest. “Careful, dear mare, you might just get what you wish for—and then you would find more…menacing points aimed at the flesh of your vulnerabilities,” the pun is laid and open in its intent, playful and unrepentant in his roguish antics. He is (usually) hardly one to beat around the bush, after all—why not lay it all out there? “Playing, of course—but hard to get?” The Warlander muses, his green eyes twinkling in his mischief, “Perhaps that is only in the discretion of the participant.” He gives her a quick, clever wink and chuckles deeply, the length of his cream-colored tail whipping through the frozen air to slap against his hairy flanks. Sometimes the antlered stallion likes to think of himself as a hard catch, a challenge, but it isn’t so—he all but crumbles in face of slithering, sultry beauty, if only to bring them down with him. If nothing else, he is a fine, impressive catch—and that knowledge is well enough to hold the weight of his swollen confidence. His fluted ears flick towards the black and purple unicorn as she ponders his name, praising its handsomeness. His gives a short nod of his head, the thick muscles of his neck arching and his lips pursing in pleasure. “Is it, isn’t it?” Indeed—how fitting Rohan is without Kaerji, cut from the ties of his heritage and his blood. He likes to tell himself he is free. Is this not freedom, after all? Mingling with a pretty lady in the dark hours of the night, swathed in nothing but their double-edged words and sultry desires. “Zandora,” Rohan continues, taking a short moment to ponder her name for himself, tasting it against his tongue and provoking another smile from his brown lips. “I don’t suppose you could afford a little more…drifting,” he doesn’t choose his words on impulse, snatching them from her lips and holding onto that train of thought. Shifting his weight forward, he reaches and tilts his head to run his antlers across her chest and stomach, their breadth large and their points sharp, grazing the skin beneath her coat with a measured, deliberate stroke. “I do fancy the thrill of unpredictability myself,” his says with a calculated sense of humor and suggestiveness, arching his neck so that his antlers tilt and are replaced by his lips at her neck. “Impulsive, are you?” notes; sorry for the wait (again =X) tag; Zandora “Speech.” RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Zandora - 08-10-2015
RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Rohan - 08-22-2015
rohan
how fickle my heart
She is like smoke from a fire—the last dying embers, hot and smoldering, twisting and writhing around his body. The stallion feels her slipping through his fingers, a sultry vapor and broken promises that slides over his skin, shifting and darting from beneath his touch. They play with each other—two cats, poised with their claws unsheathed, flicking their tails and narrowing the slits of their eyes as Cheshire grins play naughtily across their lips.
Suddenly the bitterness of winter is sweetened, the stallion’s body warming as his blood quickens and his skin grows hot beneath the thick hair of his winter coat. The worries of his past and the apprehensions of his future dissolve in the wake of the mare’s womanly wiles—and oh how he embraces it. Willingly, readily, he falls victim to her whims. Zandora’s words bring a smirking grin to his mouth, coiling against the curve of her neck. He presses further, trailing down her crest to her withers, his breath billowing in hazy wisps across her back. For a moment, it would seem that he has caught her—the crafty vixen trembling beneath his touch, her slender body poised silently and her skin hot below the heat of his breath—but in a moment, she is gone. Spinning away from him as smooth as smoke, the black and purple mare dances from his reach. Rohan eyes her for a long moment, his body suddenly cold with the absence of hers, the wintry winds swelling like a freezing wall between them. The stallion’s pride tells him to move—to leave. Abandon her while she forsakes him and leave her wanting (for the lust is unmistakable in her expression, the yearning trail of her eyes, and the playful curl of her mouth). But alas, she has trapped him as he has her, ensnaring him in her web as women are wont to do, and he submits too willingly to the wanton desires of the flesh. It is too late to fight it back now (and he doesn’t try). Just as she loves to play with her fire, so does he with his smoke. Shifting forward with the wind ripping at the long hair lining his legs and underbelly, the Warlander reaches for her again. “I was hoping you’d say that, darling,” his voice is deep against the chill of night, husky and wanting beneath the masculinity of his tone. He stands as a towering, still statue beside Zandora, despite the blood rushing through his veins and his heart quickening in his chest—his body pulling him deeper into black desires. Angling his body, Rohan shifts his chest from hers, following his muzzle as it wanders to rest just above her croup. He would ask for permission if words were needed, but as he glances back, his eyes say enough. “Speech.” RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Zandora - 09-13-2015
RE: Nothing is Impenetrable - Rohan - 09-18-2015
rohan
how fickle my heart
She doesn’t need to say anything—her eyes are enough.
Smoldering beneath the haze of her smoke, their gaze is wanting, and the stallion’s lips curl into a whisper of a smirk before he reaches to press them against her skin. The warmth that is shared between them is enough to chase away the icy bite of Frostfall, replacing the chill on his back with a burning through his veins, igniting a primal desire that courses through every fiber of his body. With his touch brushing against her hips, her flanks, and trailing back up her spine as he comes to angle behind her, the stallion cares not for the gales that whip winter’s whiteness around them. He can feel his heartbeat thumping against his ribcage, quickening at the anticipation with every breath he draws, the white wisps billowing from his nostrils and out across the mare’s back—like a silken curtain, a soft gown flowing over lover’s slender hips before melting into the bitter night. The night is theirs for the taking. His body sings with the primal call of carnage desires, needs, as he rises up, the thick arch of neck draping over hers like a banner drapes across the domain, a claim. Fiercely, passionately, skillfully he takes her as his own. He is a practiced lover. Fervent and powerful, with lips whispering along her skin with promises they both have already broken. The sun would rise, and with its glistening rays, he would be gone—their love, their passion, chased away by morning’s light and tucked away for another time, perhaps. He certainly wouldn’t mind seeing the black and purple temptress again. notes; xD i figured we could end it right about here! Hope to thread with Z again!:D “Speech.” |