[P] Someone is Going to Hell for This - 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] Someone is Going to Hell for This (/showthread.php?tid=23843) |
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Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 05-08-2016 The meadow seems so peaceful from a distance – all greens and purples and sweet scents of flowers, the gurgle of water gently flowing over a streambed of smooth stones – but it’s all a filthy lie. “FUCK.” He shouts in hopeless frustration, shattering the scene of quiet serenity for anyone nearby, his right hind leg raised high and held away from his body like a hyperbole of the infamous pissing dog pose. He reaches beneath himself to grab at a prickly stem cruelly twined in the fringe of his body-beard, unfortunately just one of many. “GODDAMNIT!” He explodes, expletives uncontrollably bursting from his mouth as he spits out thorny vines and attempts to rub the plethora of grabby seed pods off of his muzzle, merely transferring them from face to leg in the process. “SHIT-FUCK-PIIIIIIIISS,” He rages, unconcerned with who or what might hear, pinpricks of blood starting to well on his lips and in the soft folds of his Sighing and pouting, he looks around in desperation. He needs someone small and dexterous and either kind enough to help or impressionable enough to be magicked into it. He's not confident in the use of or overly educated about his magic yet, but it had a desirable enough effect on the Basin Thief, so surely it could be of assistance here if need be. OOC // Halp. xD @Volterra @Argen RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Volterra - 05-08-2016
@Albrecht RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 05-12-2016 He feels trapped, claustrophobic, unable to free himself and struggling to stay as he is. Hind leg still frozen in midair, his muscles begin to cramp and quiver under the strain of holding himself up, his raised hoof swaying and dipping unsteadily. The heat of his anger dissipates and gives way to the intoxicating drone of panic as it vibrates through his senses, rational thought having failed to resolve the problem and reluctantly stepping down to instinct, but instinct tells him to fight - kick, thrash, escape - and the barbs at his loin expressly forbid it. His ears flatten in frustration, their bases damp with sweat. He can smell it on himself, stress releasing fear hormones against his better judgment, and the scent itself balloons his response, making him feel wild and overly sensitive. He jumps at the sound of another nearby and swings his head around to assess the stranger, wincing with the repercussions of his thoughtless movement. At first glance he thinks he recognizes the black-and-white, but Ezital from the Heart Caves had antlers framing his white face and it was his hind legs that wore stockings, not his front. This fellow is a good bit larger than Ezital, maybe taller than Albrecht himself, and has no visible horns, but maybe an unknown rescuer is for the best anyway, given the old mans propensity for inciting dislike. It's not like Ezital had taken his leave on good terms. “Delicate’s not my forte I’m afraid. I don’t suppose you have the power of telekinesis?” Green eyes subdued by his own misfortune skim the stallions impassive face, then focus past it on the mass of golden scales perched over his withers. His ears flick forward in interest. “Or maybe a small-handed companion?” He's seen a dragon before and though they all seem to have their own anomalies of color, size, and shape, he recognizes the basic body conformation. This one doesn't seem overly impressed or eager to do anything but turn her bonded into a walking pin cushion - Aren't companions supposed to love their bondeds? - but maybe she could be persuaded to a more gentle disposition. He cocks his head in what he hopes is an endearing manner, brows pinched together in a beseeching please-help-me-but-at-the-same-time-don't-hurt-me kind of way. OOC // @Volterra RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Volterra - 05-13-2016
@Albrecht RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 05-20-2016 The elders hopeful expression fades at the joint refusal of stallion and dragon, neither being able nor apparently willing, in the latter’s case, to help. He glances around uncertainly in search of other assistance, the impulse to thrash his way to freedom or debilitating injury still alive and well in the back of his mind. He consciously quells the urge a second time, skin twitching in primal dissension, yet loath to multiply his pain. It’s then that the second dragon, whose presence circling above hasn’t even registered to the bag of bones ensnared below, swoops in. This one is slightly smaller than the first, a metallic crimson instead of burnished gold, but his dark eyes glimmer with the same preternatural intelligence and if that isn’t a smidge of sympathy in his calculating gaze, there’s at least a gleam of interest. The creature turns his armored head and something silent - at least to his old ears - passes between the beast and his bonded before the stallion speaks again, this time acquiescent but cautioning. Thank fuck. The bearded senior nods his head, eyes bouncing along the sharpened spines running down the reds back to the devil’s fork tipping his tail to the long, hooked claws of his hands and feet. He swallows down a wave of renewed anxiety, tail tucking close to his bunched hindquarters, though careful to keep its end on the opposite side of his body from the stranger, the dragons, and his thorny predicament. “Okay.” He rasps, shifting his raised hip a little higher and folding the airborne leg against itself as best he can. It's not a comfortable position (nothing about this is) and not one that he can hold for very long, but adrenaline has a way of lending the body abnormal strength in times of crisis and he'll sooner tear a muscle from its mooring than subtract a testicle or risk the absolute hell that must be an angry dragon if the crisscross of new and old scars across the other stallions back is what their love amounts to. As he waits for rescue in the form of reptilian hand-jobs, he wonders which is the more terrifying prospect: accidentally kicking the crimson drake and taking the brunt of his attack in the belly and scrotum, or falling over and giving himself a medieval vasectomy combination chastity belt. They'd both end in cringe worthy brutality, but would gaping wounds or infected splinters be harder to have mended? OOC// @Volterra RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Volterra - 05-24-2016
@Albrecht RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 05-31-2016 The blood-scaled dragon seems good natured enough, but as he snakes beneath the elders lifted leg and out of his limited line of sight, restrained as he is and unable to bend himself around to watch, he can’t help but instinctively tense, the scent of the unfamiliar and obviously predatory creature pressing in on his fraying senses. He flinches at the first experimental tug of claw to knotted hair, but the beast’s movements are surprisingly gentle and his reactions lessen in response, anxiety quieting with each moment his bowels remain intact. The red seems to pause now and then as if assessing a particularly complicated snarl, drawing the stallion’s ears back in question, but by steady increments the pinching and prickling are removed until the stallion’s head lowers in relief and he sighs a heavy breath he hadn’t noticed himself holding. The dragon streaks away then, back to his bonded like a proud child exclaiming his accomplishment and the white-faced stallion noses him warmly in answer while the gold looks on as petulant and unapproving as before. Albrecht watches, curious, while gently unfolding and stretching his leg. The cramped and overexerted muscles screech with every inch, but finally he touches hoof to ground and hobbles forward unsteadily. His right haunch protests the movement, nearly buckling beneath him and demanding he find a manner of walking that doesn’t involve its use, but the tingling of returning circulation promises full recovery in time so he rests the leg on its toe to wait, a relieved smile smoothing the creases of pain and worry from his mouth and eyes. "May you be the first to strip my brittle bones of flesh.” He tells the red-scaled, lowering his muzzle agreeably, though not so close as to demand an answer or gesture in return. He doesn’t know that much about dragons and much of what he thought he knew has just been proven incorrect. Not callous, ferocious, jealous hoarders of trinkets and virgins – at least not all of them, he qualifies - glancing quickly to the gold and back, but intelligent and fully emotive as any other species. He had expected them to be a bit larger though. "Are they full grown?" He asks the white-faced, hornless stallion, assuming their speech is limited to a single bondmate like other companions. They look fully matured to him, with filled out forms and wings both large and muscled enough to carry them aloft, as demonstrated by the reds dramatic entrance, but he's smart enough to know that he doesn't really know and waits for a more informed opinion on the matter. OOC // @Volterra RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Volterra - 06-08-2016
@Albrecht RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 06-15-2016 The red drake seems pleased with his offering, pleased enough that the old stallion genuinely hopes he heard the unspoken 'eventually' in his words and will let the inevitable come to him naturally, instead of in some horrifying display of draconian lethality. He wrings his lips in a circular motion to dispel the flash of cold laid there by the red-scaled's breath and sneezes suddenly, a tremor running down the uneven stair-step of his spine, raising the hairs along his unmarked dorsal line briefly. "No, not the first." He replies, sniffling. Confusion creases his weathered brow. He'd thought dragons were supposed to breathe fire, to burn and incinerate with their breath, not freeze things. He's heard plenty of stories about dragons, but he wonders now if any of them are true or if they've simply been told and retold so many times without first-hand experience that there's no truth left to them anymore. "I've seen a few here and there, usually from a distance." They don't seem to be overly sociable creatures - says the reclusive codger - and tend to leave their bondmates to their own devices when it comes to domestic appearances, at least in his limited experience, but maybe they're just preoccupied with their own social hierarchy if the color and gender of individuals is as important as the other stallion claims, or if the gold's disposition is the more normal of the two. He hadn't missed her little display of knotting a snippet of vine or the way she primps and puffs out her chest at the stallions declaration of 'Queen." "They come out at night sometimes. I can see the threading of veins in their wings by moonlight." The other companions come out at night too. Hawks, eagles, owls, all spiraling and zig-zaging across the sky in their search for prey. Wolves and cats and other carnivorous beasts prowl below, rustling the underbrush almost imperceptibly. He supposes they hunt in the dark to avoid disturbing their herbivorous bondmates, though he can think of a few who'd probably relish the chance to mentally tune in to a killing blow. Sickos. "I've never seen anyone with two dragons before though. How'd you get so lucky?" He tries not to emphasize the 'you' as if the white-faced stallion is somehow less worthy of status elevating mythical companions, but envy and jealously are ugly, ill-concealed emotions. It's not that he thinks the muscular, battle scared youth is undeserving - even a grudging old man can see that he's the picture of masculine perfection - it's just that he knows that he deserves at least as much as anyone else, maybe more. "Got a nest hidden away somewhere?" OOC // @Volterra RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Volterra - 06-24-2016
@Albrecht RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 06-27-2016 He listens, interest slowly teasing his ears away from their habitual backward slant, while the white-faced stallion describes his acquisition first of the red and then the gold, though not with the level of detail the older stallion is hoping for. How does one just ‘find’ a dragon egg? Do they all look the same or is the color of the dragon inside deducible from some aspect of the shell? The other stallion claims he was young, or simply younger to the elder’s view, when he bonded to the reptiles, so is there no trial of worthiness involved in bonding? Are all companions, even the illustrious dragon, reduced to nothing more than fancy ducklings tottering around behind whatever warm body happens to be nearby at hatching time by the laws of instant visual imprinting? He has a hard time picturing such a thing, little dragon hatchlings marching along in a row with their spiky tails and horn-bulb heads held high, but who is he to be incredulous when everything else he assumed to be truth about dragons has so recently been shown false? So he remains quiet, attentive, at least until the monochromatic bundle of muscle and masculinity mentions ensuring the eggs hatch, as if there are factors that might prevent them from doing so, but the comment is made in passing and quickly followed by a counter question, cutting off the elder’s curiosity. He balks at first, used to avoiding such queries with bold, off-putting lies or otherwise distracting commentary, but he wants to learn more about mythical companions. He wants a gold, a ‘queen,’ of his own, despite the bitter irony that he can’t quite ignore about that thought. “Well… I was kept mostly.” In all honesty, survival had never been a thing of question until he’d moved well past adulthood. There was never a time in his memory, excluding that winter and all these months following it, where the thought of death intruded in his daily life. He’d been comfortable, casual, well liked. In those days he was more likely to be crushed beneath a throng of admirers than victim to some clandestine assassination plot. “I was… likable then. Lucky. If you're looking for advice, all I can say is to depend on no one. Live for yourself, nothing else.” The words stumble from his lips, less clear than he'd meant them to be, but the idea is crisp in his mind - a sense of total autonomy - the ability to live within ones own being and be unaffected by outside influence, to let the rest of the world continue on its way or crumble to nothing and not feel a thing. So long as there is air in his lungs, grass in his stomach, his needs are fulfilled. Nothing else needed - no purpose, no justice, no home or anyone in it, no emotional attachments - Impervious, if not immortal. He's not sure how a companion would factor into this equation, but if what he understands of the companion bond is true, that it's a supernatural merging of mind and soul between two conscious beings, then the creature wouldn't be capable of betrayal, hatred, or abandonment, no matter what his crimes. He reasons that such an exception could be made without negative consequence, especially if said exception also works as a badass fire - or less preferably ice - breathing protector of life and limb. “So how would someone find a dragon egg, if they were looking?" More accurately, how would a crippled old man find a dragon egg and ensure that it hatches? @Volterra RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Volterra - 07-16-2016
@Albrecht I'm sorry for the wait!! RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 07-20-2016 He’s not sure what the other stallion means by, ‘Two-leggeds,’ but the way his little ears perk up in interest makes the elder wonder if they aren’t another mythical beast of some sort, apparently very mysterious in nature, since they go by simple descriptors instead of any proper name. He just shakes his head in response, confusion showing in his expression. He’s uncertain how to explain further without going into details he doesn’t want to share, so it’s a relief when the subject of dragon culture seems to override the equine’s curiosity. For such a young individual the white-faced stallion certainly knows a thing or two about Helovia and its ‘strange happenings.’ Albrecht remembers his own strange experience with the bedraggled fire-flamingo in the Heart Caves. The surly little fucker had seen fit to give Ki’irha, of all possible choices, an orb of sun magic. He’d thought it was an isolated event of insurmountable idiocy, but if magic and companions are granted on a regular basis and so arbitrarily… Excitement blooms in his narrow, bearded chest and he makes a mental note to explore anything out of the ordinary from now on, metaphorical doors of possibility swinging open in his mind. Then comes an upsetting little tidbit, one that slams the doors and windows shut on all his future endeavors. “Only horses can bond to dragons?” He repeats, an edge of accusation in the question as if the other stallion has any part in deciding who a dragon does or doesn’t want to bond with. Refusing to believe that he's somehow - physically? mentally? supernaturally? - disqualified from having a dragon of his own, he glances into the red and gold reptilian faces in front of him, searching for some confirmation one way or the other, then catches the younger stallion staring at his horns as if he hasn’t been aware of their existence his entire life and needs someone else to point them out for him to be aware of his own heritage. Annoyance surges, not truly directed at the youth but certainly pertaining to him. The elder's ears sweep back to an obstinate angle, his hairpin temper rising. "Hmph." He snorts, deciding that maybe the white-faced herpetologist doesn't know as much as he appears to. He had said these things are largely dependent on blind luck and now that he thinks about it, why would an animal that flies and breathes fire populate in a dense, very flammable forest? Maybe the youth has just been talking out of his ass this entire time. His tufted tail flicks, suddenly dismissive. "Well, I guess I'll just have to look and see then." RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Volterra - 07-24-2016
@Albrecht RE: Someone is Going to Hell for This - Albrecht - 07-30-2016 Tall, dark, and overly muscled refuses to rise to the elder’s ire, an impressive display of self-control compared to the rest of Helovia’s complete inability to do the same. His opinion of the hornless stallion rises several notches and he’s almost sorry to see him go because of it, but he watches, silent, as the little entourage gathers to leave. He supposes he’s learned all that’s pertinent about the scaly, flying beasts at the youth's back for now anyway. The rest he can learn later on, when he’s bonded to a gold of his own, his mind stubbornly asserts. The other stallion grins and offers a final remark, one pointed enough to remind the old man how this whole ordeal got started, and one of his threadbare ears flips forward in a semblance of chagrin in response. He is thankful for the red’s intervention in his miserly, and for most - if not all - of the information that followed the rescue, he’s just not so great (read inexcusably negligent) at showing positive emotions like gratitude or politeness or even the barest friendliness. Hostility and impudence have become a comfortable norm for the bearded geezer and it’s a well-known fact that the elderly have trouble with change. He lets this slight embarrassment roll over his bony topline like all the other responsibilities and formalities of life that he continues to ignore, but he does take the advice to heart, carefully tracking along the path of the golden dragon's destruction until he's clear of the so-called 'meadow,' and can turn his shambling gait to the warmer lands of the south. OOC // Just finishing this up. Thank you so much for threading with me! @Volterra |