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Midnight City - Misael - 04-13-2016 He had traveled across quite the obstacle littered journey, his life a sick game of treasure hunts and calculated traps. He was born a normal child (well he didn't even know if that was true) everything known to him stolen by the hand of the reaper, his innocence taken from him in seconds. He was left a young child bare, raw, vulnerable, and completely susceptible to the forces of nature, to the forces of the world. The man who had done this didn't even have the decency to put him out of his misery, but instead he took everything away from Miseal and forced him to continue to live under such hopelessness, such despair. If one had never felt the utter disorientation of not knowing who you once were, who you once had been, where you came from, and who to fear, whom to love, they should consider themselves blessed. For Miseal had felt it first hand, and the side effects of this disease of the lost, well it was catastrophic. Somehow though, the beast had risen from the very of ash of his breaking moments. Miseal had been placed in a wicked cycle of rebirth and death, a twisted, evil metaphor. He knew though, that the chromed, the capable, could not be of such name if he had not prevailed, won against all odds. That was who he was now; the striped stallion wasn't touched by the weakening abilities of the elements, of the demons that haunted so many. He would not allow himself to fall into the statistics of the shattered souls and percentages of those who had lost the war, who had given up. Miseal had won, will win, and he won't stop, ever. His life wasn't his own to give up on anymore, his impact had touched others, his love had extended to others, and he owed them that at least. He would not only fight for himself, win for himself, he would fight any war waged upon him and upon those he loved, for family. Family meant something to Miseal, and that something was not taking lightly. So the chromed found himself once again upon the battlefield of the throat. This was a different type of battle though, for his last spar had been one meant to get his name out there, to place a certain power behind the name of Miseal. He had proven to himself that he was capable, beating the moose man upon the soil of his sandy home. Home, another important aspect that had grown into that category of meaning something to the stallion, when so little did. The Dragon's throat had taken him in, had shown him the concept of family that he hadn't known until he witnessed it in the desert dunes and days. The concept that he so wholly, so purely, wanted to replicate within the borders of his own personal family, but Miseal couldn't do that, not just yet. Not until he could return to those he loved, knowing he deserved their love, deserved the family they allowed him to become apart of. Not until he had earned everything he obtained and cherished. That was why he found himself here again, the crisp frostfall air tickling his nostrils as the moon shined her story upon the battlefield. Soon though, Miseal would join her storytelling with a second story of his own, and he hoped it would be one of victory. There was a determination that encompassed him as his golden eyes analyzed the chilly night; this determination was a different breed. It wasn't one of bloodlust (yet) but rather a maddening drive to win, because this time around, he wasn't winning for bragging rights. He was winning for the ultimate trophy, and that was family. He waited for one to appear, a molten fire burning through his veins as determination ran hot and wild, ready to be molded and shaped into triumph. "Talk" WC: 655 Attack: 0/3 Damage Tracker: Setting: Dragon's throat, just outside of the borders. It's on sand and slightly chilly as well as windy. The moon and stars are pretty bright, but the overall setting is semi-dark. MISAEL @Cera RE: Midnight City - Cera - 04-17-2016
RE: Midnight City - Misael - 05-02-2016 And shaped and molded it would be. The beat of wings entered his drums, echoing their appearance through the slice of winds, through the whistle of their strength. He looked to the sky, scanning for the owner of those appendages, the owner of the power and freedom that they offered. Miseal always wanted to soar; he was a soul seeking for freedom--even if it was temporary. There was just something about the aurora of freedom, which lured him. Taunting and beckoning him to let it all go, to forget his responsibilities and live as a gypsy among the lands. He couldn't be scorned for it, everyone wanted freedom, but the difference was that the chromed accepted his desire and knew that he couldn't cave in to the siren's call. The golden boy landed from the skies and Miseal instantly looked him over. Miseal searched with hungry eyes, seeping into the golden and porcelain skin of the combatant. The low light of the night didn't do Miseal any favors, but he saw enough of the painted stallion that he remembered as Cera. The two had worked together to build Maren's church ages ago, before Miseal had become who he was now, before he was a father and before he was a man. Cera was shorter then him, and his frame did not carry the bulk of Miseal's own draft lines, but Miseal matched with a pair of wings and a companion. Miseal had never sparred with a companion before, and did not know if Cera would use it to his advantage or not. He also had little experience with wings, but was well aware of their delicacy; the endangerment that would come to him would be from the heights that they could take Cera. Even if he was outmatched, Miseal had a trinket of his own, the jade dragon he had stolen from Outlik curled around his horn. He kept the jade dragon upon his horns for last minute measures, but had no true intent to use it in this "friendly" spar of skill. If you can keep it so His mind echoed to him, reminding him of times he had lost himself, falling to the hand of the monster that clawed and cried to be released inside of him. How fearful it was, to know that you, the body of you, can be taken over by something you think of as monster, but really truly is you. A certain antlered woman and her fallen child came to mind as he thought about a time he had let the animalistic side of him roam free. Miseal was dangerous and he wouldn't let that loose today, nor tomorrow, or ever, the world did not need another disaster on golden hooves . He wished the thoughts away that surged forward in these moments of analyzing and silence. He had to focus on the events at hand, plunging into the depths and wells of his mind would do the chromed no good. With a deep breath, he reminded himself why he was here and whom he was fighting for. He let the determination rise up in his bones, his body and mind prepared for the spar that started with an "I accept" and a rush of flying sands into the dark skies. Cera jumped into the skies, the throat sands swirled and danced underneath his bright white wings. Miseal knew he had to eliminate the further threat of those wings; there was no surprise that Cera would use those first. All too quickly, Cera is upon him, and Miseal shifted to the left, dodging most of the attack, but still managing to feel the weight and pain of Cera's hooves scraping into his skin. A thin line of blood that marked the beginning of battle appeared, but most of his pain centered on the bruising that Cera's hooves had caused. With a grimace, the workings of his counter-attack started. Miseal spun his body to the left with as much speed as possible, taking care to avoid using his right leg. Initiating the power in his hindquarters, Miseal quickly turned 180 degrees around so that he and Cera would both be facing the same way. The grit of wind-tossed sand stung his lungs, and he could feel the slightest hints of soreness from his spar with Moose, but his determination kept him fast and focused. With his teeth bared, the chromed reached out for Cera's right wing joint, the wing's glow illuminated the night and made it easier to see Miseal’s target. The chromed hoped to latch on and tear at the wing so that the spar would remain earth bound. "Talk" WC: 786 Attack: 1/3 Damage Tracker: Cut on right shoulder Setting: Dragon's throat, just outside of the borders. It's on sand and slightly chilly as well as windy. The moon and stars are pretty bright, but the overall setting is semi-dark. MISAEL @Cera RE: Midnight City - Cera - 05-23-2016 link href='http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Italianno' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'>
RE: Midnight City - Misael - 06-26-2016 Metallic. Bitter. The taste of his own attack hit him all too hard, the tangy reminisce of Miseal’s desire to keep Cera grounded stuck to his tongue like glue. He could feel the blood’s tendrils crawl down his throat, haunting and morbid. He let go of the wing instantly, spitting out the disgusting taste and the memories of blood that dared to rise with it. Not now, not now. He cried out, praying for distraction, knowing that the deep rooted ghosts of his past enjoyed to play when he was most vulnerable. Shaking away those thoughts of them, (who are they? Why was he suddenly scared of blood?) Miseal realized that he did not know the life at which wings could bring a Pegasus; he only knew that he was horned and Cera held an advantage over him that Miseal could not dare to allow. He understood now, perhaps his worst flaw of all; Miseal could not control the ferocious, dangerous need for victory, could not make a line between spar and battle. All he knew was, there was a fury of fire within him, his inner beast roamed unshackled, and his family awaited at the doors of victory. This was for them, he could not lose to the winged, even if he was a fellow, Miseal needed this. His shoulder was in agony, but as the fire within him grew back to its treacherous heights, the pain dulled as the clockwork of his mind spun to regain the aurora of battle. His golden’s squint hard, searching, awaiting for Cera’s counterattack, the mass of Miseal’s limbs untangling as he attempted to find his balance. His size cost him in defending the clip upon his skin, a grunt releasing from his mouth as Cera landed a bite at the sensitive skin of his stifle, it was more of an annoying pain than it was awful, but curse his slowness. A man of Miseal’s height couldn’t have it all, and although he outmatched Cera in a few traits, the winged’s toned and skinner frame won against Miseal’s bulk. Warmth seeped down his right leg, trailing down his dusty pillar as the bite wound fared its hello. His head whips to a retreating Cera, orbs sharp and attentive as he tries to figure out what the man might be conjuring, his gears prepared for charge by the golden boy's hand. Miseal's brow furrowed for a second, eyes falling upon the crippled wing that lain awkwardly at Cera’s side. Was that all Miseal was good at? Causing pain, harming, destroying that at which others lived on? Maybe he didn't do this spar for Anzanie, for Viserra, for the Throat, perhaps he followed along the lures of the animal that cried within him at times, begging to be released from Miseal’s controlling clutches. Here he was, throwing his mass against others, violently ripping at skin and doing everything he possibly could to destroy. The beast within him was smarter then his own damn mind, tricking him into thinking battle was for betterment when truly, deep down, war was release. So he raged. Time had escaped between his clutches and it seemed Cera had already attempted his attack, to Miseal’s luck he had missed it. After all, what was the point of running? Was it not a sign of surrender? Miseal had at least expected some sort of maneuver back to where Miseal had stood a charge even. Surely Cera should have known, even the violent animal inside him stopped at the wave of white. Wasting no more time, the Chromed’s legs begun to work, tan hooves digging deep into the sands as he put in the most amount of effort into thrusting himself forward. Sore legs cry in misery with each pounding step, the soft and shifting ground of the throat only further placing Miseal in pain. He knows he cannot use his legs with his injuries (to stretch the skin in such a way, how awful) to lift him up or to try anything fancy, so the beast sets his target, bends his crowned head and charged. Oh how Miseal wanted to hit and hit hard. There was no stopping, not now, Miseal was too far gone, sanity slipping through the cracks in his shell, draining away until nothing sane could balance all the was not. Like pistons his legs work, the sand stinging his pelt and eyes as the freight train of a man galloped, the only obstacle to stop him was Cera. Training his body towards Cera, eyes squinting in the dark shroud of night, Miseal shifted his body slightly left, aiming to crash his horn and power into Cera's left hip and side. The only thing he could hear now was the tainted laughter of the devil within. Oh what fun. "Talk" WC: 800 Attack: 2/3 Damage Tracker: Cut on right shoulder, bite on right stile Setting: Dragon's throat, just outside of the borders. It's on sand and slightly chilly as well as windy. The moon and stars are pretty bright, but the overall setting is semi-dark. MISAEL @Cera RE: Midnight City - Jen - 07-08-2016 Misael's post was over 3 weeks after the dice roll time stamp. .5 VP to Cera. |