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to be absolved - Fiore - 07-28-2016
were he a more conscious individual, he might have felt inclined to believe that the putrid heat was karmic retribution for our sins. alas, proverbial carnival fires on high do not woo him; apathy fixed in velvet, he is hell bent -- energy spent. wanderlust and war symbiotic in how they've coagulated in his throat just right. stygian lungs tight with travel. he's exhausted. ravaged. it will forever amuse him just how savage their world could be, what with how the sun drools gluttony. it's hands ( a metaphoric allusion to the streams of light which filter through empty skies ) white-knuckled, wolf mad. fingers locked like nooses. but you won't catch me! although he may dare you to try; after all, he covets challenge wherever he can find it.
in comparison to this, the looming canopies of the threshold ( perhaps an allegory for impending uncertainty ) are a relief. their gaping crowns offering a spot of shade under which he could rest. equine frame nesting against a tree by lieu of one haunch pressed against the timber. inhale. exhale. oxygen drags down the throat and incites impatience. already he thirsts for whatever rejuvenated culture exists beyond the gates. that if too much time were to pass, he imagines he just might travel onward anyway. but until then, he'd appreciate the thicket's promised liberation. the wood's bestial enation. his figure dissolving poetically into tinges of gray and ink as the shadows cloaked him in film. with even the white of him ( pallid armor --- he wore it well; chalk adorned by colored spells of auburn, of black ) left sullied by the somber atmosphere. only his eyes to contrast. aforementioned pupils vivid with ferocity if nothing else. blue ripe with concentrated barbarity. the animal in him feeling coerced by the silence as he waited for one opportunity or another.
RE: to be absolved - Paradox - 07-28-2016
RE: to be absolved - Sikeax - 07-28-2016 i never said i'd stay to the end The previous luck that she experienced in the threshold had given her a touch of confidence, one that boldly told her that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It was a place to learn, whether it be as of the rise of new outcast bands desperate for recruits as she had once been with the Assassins, or the same old thing from the herds, and information was gold. By leaving in the morning, she’d made good progress against the heat. The Sun had been swallowed by canopies by the time it'd reach its height, and tucked into the belly of the woods, the aloe vera atop her coat and skin had played little of the job it was supposed to. The threshold had a way of feeling empty, or quite possibly it could have been Helovia as a whole that felt this way. Hobgoblin lunged himself through the trees and down paths that she struggled to follow, wincing and tugging as parts of her tail became entangled in brush and thorns sweep into her legs. Speckles of red dot her champagne hide. She questions how much of a wild person she will look if she does encounter someone, looking ahead with thinning annoyance as Hobgoblin continues to blindly abandon her, leaping and bounding with ease as his body simply phases through objects. Please wait for me. It doesn't cross his mind well. Waiting is not something that the Rougarou can achieve for extended periods of time, and as the black holes in place of eyes in his skull are moved to gaze into her direction, disgust fumes. How dare she suspect such a thing from him? He shifts uncomfortably in the foliage that he hovers in. She is moving towards him, at last, but she bares complaints that would better suit him. "You slow." It's your fault." Jaws open and snap back shut within minutes, slamming down teeth into the holes that they've made for themselves between one another. A clack follows with it. It does nothing to change her mind as she pushes past him, never once thinking of passing through him. He is a material being regardless of what the body he shoves himself into says in defiance to that. She will never see him as a ghost or as any of his other forms, only a beast that cannot make up his mind in what he wanted to be in life. They get lucky this time. Not every tree will bear fruits, as will the visits to this forest, but this time, there is fruit that can hopefully be picked and returned home with. Hobgoblin cannot keep his eyes off of the mare, twisting his head to the side to show his questioning state. She too wears a skull for a face, but not one that matches the ones that he has discovered. Intricate designs have been done up within it. They twist, swirl, colour themselves with things he didn't expect possible for such an increasingly common marking. She looks nothing like Zhu or Volterra, not even Kid, and he goes with the assumption that she has no meaning to him at all. Not that it was expected for anyone outside of Sikeax to hold any sort of definition to him, it's just that Hobgoblin can place her lower on the list of who not to give a fuck about. Sikeax, on the other hand, doesn't take as much time to study it as he does. She frets momentarily over the size difference she has over the two of them and the lack of horns, but at least now she doesn't have to worry about the Basin making an appearance. Be polite. A snarl could have been addressed to her when Hobgoblin latches his hard stare to her, but the lack of muscle over his head has spared her. The little mare is the first one to start, pressed closer up to the stallion that Sikeax can imagine comfortable, watching from the borders of their shade. Paradox, an odd name fitting an odd mare, who says she's from a band that she has never heard of. Small ears press forward as her attention heightens. Hobgoblin groans in the back of their heads. "Sikeax, the Sun Physician of the Dragon's Throat." A dip of her crowned skull is given for a short second, Hobgoblin slipping away to find something worth making a meal out of in this wretched place. Only now does she note that they haven't stopped to really eat much. "How are the two of you?" More small talk with the quiet hopings that he'll have questions, and that Paradox will give out some sort of valuable information regarding the 'Unbound.' It drives her crazy at the thought of having to interrogate the other female, or it could just be Hobgoblin, grumbling about the lack of game that he can find here. OOC: Welcome to helovia, boleyn! If y'all would just tag me when it's my turn to post that would be absolutely wonderful. <3 If I'm slow on getting a response, send me a PM or get me in cbox and I'll try to get back to you as quickly as I can. Hobgoblin is in his Wendigo form. when both us knew how the end always is RE: to be absolved - Fiore - 07-29-2016
you ---- you are unusual. an idiosyncratic addition to peripheal sights. frigid occuli ( permanently entreating winter's bride ) studiously reflecting a skeletal face. weight shifts through appendages, anchors. wanderlusts' proverbial tide yet ebbing against the soul. did you come here for me? if so, take me as you would a shot. tequila. honey. let me burn in the dank heat of your jugular. yet despite his piqued mental awareness, the attached corpse does little to convey much intrigue. there is no prancing, no nicker, nor jovial invitation. rather, he stays much as he is. aloof. apathetic. with only the faint cant of his ears forward to signify that he was paying any attention at all. are you lost, dear? the unwarranted pet name settles poorly on vulnerose lungs. a bitter pill. does he look like so dear, to you --- mardis gras muse with your erratic tribute to carnival warfare. but your romanesque countenance inspires where your seduction falls short. and he finds that he's intrigued by this prospect of being unbound. it sounded a lot like freedom. "no," he manages to answer after a pregnant pause. he's hardly verbose. words were expensive things, it'd be a damn pity to throw them away for free. so he speaks when he has something to say. "not lost." he won't go into detail about how he once lived here before. how he'd been whelped from helovian thighs and left to nurse upon thy atmosphere's metaphoric teat.
before he can speak, however, they're interrupted. by what, he can't exactly say. subconsciously, sepia smothered ears twist back upon thy crown. the wolf in him all raised hackles, bared teeth, as he's confronted by the creature. there's a subtle inclination to stomp, to bring his weight baring down upon the companion's body by lieu of volatile hooves. he thinks otherwise, though, when he manages to redirect his blue, blue focus towards the ( presumed ) unicorn that follows at the thing's heels. a flicker of self-directed adoration blossoms; vanity arisen in thy breast. skeletal halls --- organ chambers ---- proud of the fact that he's managed to draw the interest of two. but ultimately it would be what they had to offer that mattered. for he was well beyond the idle sobriety of his youth. age and travel naming him an alcoholic. compulsive. greedy. he can't get enough. her whiskey tinged introduction giving him something to think about. dragon's throat. how inspired. "fiore," he finally manages to introduce to the pair ( trio? ). one's own tongue riddled in musk and too much bourbon. an innate masculinity in the flavor. "and i'm just fine." nevermind that he's exhausted from trips across the red waste, the unimaginable outskirts. grit still in his belly from where he swallowed the world wrong. there would be time to rest when his alliances were made. contemplation hosts the gaze that travels 'twixt the both of them. curelean diligent with inspection. "do tell me of your homes."
ooc | thank you both so much for posting ♥ and anyone else is still welcome to enter, i'm just so excited to write aha @paradox @sikeax RE: to be absolved - Paradox - 07-29-2016
@sikeax RE: to be absolved - Sikeax - 07-30-2016 i never said i'd stay to the end Hobgoblin is growing bored, and she can’t help but admit that she is as well, whether it be from his influence over her emotions and thoughts or not. Fiore, the stallion, has already won himself the simple feat of receiving Hobgoblin’s distaste. Their awkward greeting without the immediate presence of Sikeax gave him enough leeway to draw his jaws wide and bare teeth, and if there was a nose there, it would have been crinkled high from the presence of the short man. He gives him what can only be defined as a low, dark hiss that rolls out from somewhere deep within the ghastliness of his current body. At her delayed arrival, he treats the situation as if he actions never occurred. Nothing is brought up about them, and after she begins to speak, he is gone, slipping into the trees and foliage with head low and jaws slightly parted, prepared for a kill that he can’t get to happen. The sight of downed ears pushes her brows down and lets her blue eyes fall into wrinkled caves beneath their descent. Her own ears press forward for a few short seconds before twirling back around and sinking. “What?”, she seems to say with her expression. What has she done to retrieve such a greeting? “No like.” Which one? She gives them a quick secondary study, trying to figure out what has pinpointed his dislike other than the rude greeting that they had been given. The mare seemed alright with her light response to Sikeax’s attempt at introductions, but she hadn’t been there for a good thirty seconds, leaving an opening for a thousand different things to occur with Hobgoblin in the area. “Both.” This is not a conversation she wants to have and the same follows for him. Without words, emotions or exchanged motions, the two agree to leave it be. It’s better that way. Fiore has been polite in a way that she guesses no one will truly come to respect. He wants to learn, and for this, she thanks him in her head. Paradox would then spill as much information as she could as a beginning, and Sikeax would do the same, but leak information that everyone is common to know in Helovia, and hopefully in turn, encourage Paradox to give more. She is rarely a manipulative soul, but at times one has to go against their typical facade for the greater. And oh, what a stupid thing this mare spills. She wants Hobgoblin to be there because Hobgoblin has no vices in his head about what is right and what is wrong, throwing it all into a heap that signifies he doesn’t give a single damn about what other people think of him. With him near, she could have handed him her feelings and patiently waited for their imminent performance. He would have thrown out laughter that rattles bones and sinks into cores, wildly throwing any insult he can manage towards the mare and how stupid her idea of what a herd is. She had basically defined it while trying to prove it different from one. She’ll be polite in proving the mare’s idiocy, only because this is a formal meeting that looks best if she is well-mannered. “Paradox?” The tone is soft, kinda like how you imagine your older sister uses to correct you while trying to remain nice and playful, loving in a sense. It’s fake. Hobgoblin is howling out short screeches in the woods. He’ll lose his game as a consequence, but that doesn’t matter. This is quality entertainment. “What you described is exactly a herd.” If horses could vomit, she would have already been drawing up an ample amount, regardless of the look of concern painted over her. She pulls herself away from her lower skull and ears, pulling them back up gently and pressing herself into a calm demeanor for her speech. “The Dragon’s Throat is a herd south of here, on an island. We worship the Sun God as our patron and come from a warrior society that was once lead by the great Kri the Resolute, but is now under Gaucho the Wildfire and Megaera the Sunspear. We’re the longest standing herd in the same region, and view one another as family members. If you are to take up a rank, as a warrior, spy, apostle who study history and religion, or my class, as a healer, where I teach the healing arts. A rank lead will aid you in perfecting your chosen skill. It’s a very rewarding experience, and in return, you get to experience welcome companionship, a safe home and a better life than what you would receive in an outcast band.” Her voice is nearly a spit in the face to Paradox, who as far as Sikeax and Hobgoblin were concerned, had made a fool of herself. “Who leads the Unbound, Paradox? Or are you truly unaligned and aimless?” Hobgoblin wails at this, screeching out his vocal cords as the frightening screeches bellow from deep in his chest. A smile tucks into the back of her head, but physically, her features are stoic and collected, a clean slate against anything this mare might be searching for. OOC: I didn't write him out returning, but Hobgoblin makes a comeback while Sia is talking. The noises he makes while laughing sounds like the same noise as barn owls make while screeching but in a barking rhythm. when both us knew how the end always is RE: to be absolved - Tyrath - 08-02-2016 @fiore @paradox @sikeax |