[P] Grains of Sand - 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] Grains of Sand (/showthread.php?tid=21384) |
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Grains of Sand - Rhea - 11-04-2015
RE: Grains of Sand - Rohan - 11-05-2015 living like we're
r e n e g a d e s
So, he has reached the end of Helovia—one part of it anyway.
The stallion’s gaze lingers for a long moment on the horizon, pondering its mysteries and what unknowns might lurk out there, before he turns parallel along the shoreline. Pale hooves sink into the sand as he walks, his gait slow, but not without the natural pride and elegance of his Baroque ancestors. The heat of Tallsun beats down upon his back, and being a creature much more suited to cooler seasons, he finds himself uncomfortable beneath the warmth. He paces idly, listening to the whitecaps as they crash along the sands. Suddenly there is the clear splashing of water, one that does not belong to the rhythmic waves, that draws the stallion’s attention outward towards the horizon. Dark-rimmed ears press forward, searching with bright green eyes to land on the dark figure—a pegasus mare, standing not too far from the shoreline, appearing to bathe herself in the briny, pulsing waters. Rohan purses his lips for a moment, wondering why he hadn’t noticed her arriving sooner (because surely he could have seen her coming), but chalking it up to the consumption of his own thoughts, the Warlander soon brushes aside the why and focuses on the now— —because now is his for the taking. Flicking his long, unruly tail around his flanks (the skin of his hips and back now hardened well, and hair is finally returning from his battle wounds), Rohan shifts his path in the winged mare’s direction, arching his muscled neck and releasing a breathy snort. The ocean’s cool water froths up about his hairy legs when he steps into its salty clutches, licking eagerly at his skin as pale hooves carry him steadily forward. She is beautiful, he notes as the distance between them diminishes. Her body is toned and sleek, colored a velvet black—he catches a glimmer of something (scales, maybe?) that reflects the water’s light on her lower chest, peeking over the ocean’s surface periodically as it rises and falls with its powerful current. Lustrous raven wings hug her sides, metallic in their shine, attracting him like a moth to a flame. Green eyes take her in with a hunger that only nature’s testosterone can provide, primal and ravenous and simply desperate. Truly, it would seem that nature had His way when creating the male mind, so impossibly driven by these primitive instincts. “I’d be happy to help you with that,” the large stallion muses, coming to a slow halt and observing the blood encrusted on some particularly difficult-to-reach parts of her body, “it can’t be comfortable.” His deep voice rumbles in its breadth, holding a wickedly playful edge that compliments the crooked smirk that twists his lips. Beneath the sun’s brightness, strong muscles brace him against the ocean’s push and pull, pale hooves anchoring him in place as the waves rise and fall from his chest. “Speech.” rohan RE: Grains of Sand - Rhea - 11-07-2015
RE: Grains of Sand - Rohan - 11-17-2015 living like we're
r e n e g a d e s
The slip of the mare’s expression, a fleeting glimpse of her astonishment, entices a deeper smirk to settle across the stallion’s brown lips. So—he has snuck up on her, apparently, and his offering of aid was not what she had expected to hear. Thick, cream tresses slap against his tough flanks, streams of water flying from the strands of hair as they rise momentarily from the foamy waters. It is true, Rohan would like nothing more than to help her wash the blood and muck from her sleek body, if only to feel her warm skin beneath his own, to close the distance between them and satisfy nature’s most primal needs.
Ultimately, it’s what he was created for, isn’t it? Why the hell would he try to fight it? A short silence descends between the two as they appraise each other, and the Warlander takes every advantage of the moment. Bright green eyes, shaded beneath the shadows that the summer sun throws starkly across his face, watch the winged unicorn with amusement, a fire smoldering beneath his pleasure (as hungry as always, hardly satisfied, ever desperate and wanting). She is a fine creature to behold (but then again, he has yet to be disappointed with the women of Helovia). His attention lingers for a moment too long on the shapely curve of her flanks, the gentle sway of her hips as she advances towards him, before her voice brings his gaze back to her face. Her demeanor has changed by now—she has checked herself, fitted back into whatever mask she favors for this moment. One side of Rohan’s brow rises amusingly, but he doesn’t challenge her. Who is he to criticize? As far as she’s playing the game, casting the cards and picking up what he has dealt, he couldn’t care less about who she might be (perhaps a reckless and foolish notion, but he is far too untamed, far too driven to care for more than now). Smirking as he arches his mighty neck, the large stallion does not shift his gaze from hers, watching as the sun’s light glitters from her uniquely-colored eyes. “My name is Rohan, I’m a warrior for the Edge,” he brandishes the title proudly, satisfied to finally be a protector of his home, even if the Edge has little ties to his heart. It has given him purpose, which has been enough thus far. “And you, sweetheart—” the Warlander continues, wondering if this particular vixen will honor him with a name, or leave her identity to the whims of his wild imagination “—who are you?” He shifts his weight a step closer, lean muscles bracing him against the push and pull of the tide. Her final words linger to play with his thoughts, encouraging him to his own inclinations, believing that—perhaps—fate will have blessed him today. “No need to be miserable, then; I wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you to suffer,” his deep voice rumbles from his lips much like the ocean, rolling in a low tone that is nearly a purr, highlighting the impish spark that flickers brazenly through his eyes. Pushing boundaries, Rohan dares to reach out to her, seeking to close the distance between them. “Are these from the God battle?” His muzzle hovers at her shoulder, nostrils quivering as he feels the heat gathering between them. “Speech.” rohan RE: Grains of Sand - Rhea - 11-18-2015
RE: Grains of Sand - Rohan - 12-11-2015 living like we're
r e n e g a d e s
The black temptress continues to play with him, and it is only willingly that he steps into her trap—but not without spinning a web of his own. As a testosterone-driven stallion, Rohan cannot hope to ignore the wiles of women (especially women such as this one), but he doesn’t want to. For every slinking smirk she gives, for every sensual sway of her hips, for every wicked flicker in her eye, he reveals in the pleasure that sparks across his skin. How can there only be one champion, when neither feels a loss? As far as he concerned, as far as he is willing to admit, they are both victors in this carnal game.
His green eyes watch her as she moves, tracing hungrily along the lines of her sleek body, his skin twitching at the sharp touch of her tail. The Warlander does not attempt to hide his appraisal (as he would with some other mares) because it is clear that this little minx wouldn’t mind his appreciation in the slightest. Matching her smirk with an impish twist of his own lips, Rohan closes the distance between them eagerly. Lingering at her shoulder, dark-rimmed ears twist at her voice, and a low, wry chuckle rumbles from his chest. She would be from the Basin. Sialia, Rexanna, Zandora—Enna. Now Rhea. They grow some sexy damsels in those snowy mountains, don’t they? Rohan can’t seem to escape them (although he’d never want to) but it has him considering joining the dark North at last. Perhaps he’s run from it long enough. But the moment is fleeting—at least at this point, he is satisfied in drawing the vixens from their place in the peaks, content enough at his home in the Edge. Lifting his eyes to the mare’s, Rohan’s` smirk deepens. “And a nice little tidbit it is,” he chuckles dryly, tossing the length of his unruly forelock from his gaze. Shifting his large weight, he doesn’t allow distance to be lost between them, unwilling to give up what he’s already gained. His muscled neck remains arched, whiskery muzzle hovering at her shoulder. With a warm breath ruffling across the feathers at her joint, the stallion’s eyes wander momentarily at the mention of the battle. The memories both excite and depress him (mostly the former, as unexperienced as he is in the true heartbreak of bloodshed), but he manages to keep himself largely composed. “Yes—I stumbled upon each of the four God battles, and defended Helovia with the rest of them,” he huffs melodramatically, pursing his lips. As valiant and as strong as he had felt, Rohan can’t deny how measured it had all seemed—which brings him to question the Helovian Gods and their intentions. He doesn’t know enough to form an exact opinion, but they haven’t necessarily impressed him thus far. “The Rift fought viciously, although this is from some bastard’s thick-headed dragon,” the Warlander continues, gesturing curtly to the mostly-healed scabs across his upper flanks and hips. His eyes skirting again across Rhea’s figure, he takes note of her bloody wounds, recognizing well the seared, hot flesh. “I daresay you have suffered a similar fate, darling,” he casts her a short glance, lips curling into a naughty grin, “let me see if I can ease any of your frustration for you.” Reaching deliberately forward, Rohan presses his muzzle against her lower neck. He idles there for a moment, breathing her in and feeling her skin, before rubbing gently, scrubbing off the blood that has caked to her coat. notes; sorry for the wait! =o “Speech.” rohan |