Seeking an Audience | mauja - Ambrosius - 07-09-2012
With utter indifference, a massive dark wraith moved across the fire-scorched terrain, char and a humble quantity of ash clinging to the hairs which mantled his thick, powerful legs. The piquant aroma of smoke curled into his trembling nasal cavities as he inhaled, absorbing and assessing his surroundings with an inherent stoical attitude. The obsidian brute has always held a sick fascination with fire: the way it ravages and engulfs everything it comes in contact with in a wave of death and destruction. It can sustain life with its warmth and ability to produce its own illumination and also take it away with its unpredictability and merciless nature. It is untamable, and can be conquered by no man without the aid of magic.
A faint smile curled across his lips: a rare sight, seldom seen on the stallion. One day he would possess such an ability. He would be powerful and reckless with the blunt, precise deadliness of a warrior. Yes. That is what he desired. The rank of a warrior in the World's Edge herd, as well as to join the Plague. He desired power and the bitter taste of blood on his lips, but that would come later. Now, he must call upon the King of these lands to request his rank. He would prove he was worthy.
She stood proudly amidst the charred foliage, head hoisted high into the air to allow the narrative of his voice to travel with ease through the desiccated air, intended to greet the ears of the FrostHeart. "Mauja, I wish to have an audience with you!" His voice poured like gravel from ragged, charcoal lips, the vocalism raspy and deep, rumbling like shallow thunder in the depths of his muscular chest. His voice was firm and loud, assuring the dialogue of his voice would reach him.
Soulless eyes looked out across the destruction, waiting for the arrival of his "King."
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Mauja - 07-09-2012
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Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign
He was moontouched.
Where he went, the shadows deepened, the breezes calmed and touched with soft, cool hands; the stars somehow seemed brighter and sharper. It was both darker around him, and lighter - and in his eyes a silvery reflection resided within his pupil, hemmed in by the wintery shade of his irises. It gave him the appearance of being blind, of having cataracts, yet should one look closer they would see that it was not a uniform, dull gray, like fog, but rather silvery-bright, reminiscent of the ridges and craters of the moon. Mauja was moontouched indeed, two long raven feathers sitting just behind his ears, three more in his tail - gifts from ravens she had sent to darken out the sky one day. Now, it was dark, her powers full, and he felt lighter. Colder.
A call cut through the peaceful Edge night, a call meant for him, a call originating within a sleek, black stallion - Ambrose. Mauja knew little of him, except that Cineviam had taken him home and he seemed to have his heart in the right place. Curious as to what it might be about, the pale King shifted his path, flowing like the now-absent fog across the ground; his tail streamed behind him, held high, as he closed the distance to the stallion at a high-kneed trot. Soon enough he'd located the source of the call, and through the trees he came, shimmering softly like some alabaster ghost. With the silver light causing him to glow, the moon-shadow across his eyes and the raven's feathers behind his ears, he seemed ethereal, not quite real and yet too solid to be an apparition. Without knowing the way his eyes were in the dark, Mauja blinked, peering at the black Ambrose. The King's defining feature seemed to be curiosity - wherever he went, it plagued him. When someone called him, it tugged at him to answer; when he traveled, it was with eager eyes he drank the world in. Even when someone had a bone to pick with him, he was curious about the reasons, and what it was. Curiosity made his life easier.
"Hm, Ambrose?" he said by way of greeting, walking now - drifting, more like it, feathers whispering across the ground and nearly hiding all of his frost-bathed striped hooves. He seemed to glide, and had the fog still come at night, it might've been hard to tell if he walked on the ground or not. But alas, the Sun had taken even that from them, and Mauja thought that maybe the only thing he hadn't taken (yet) was their lives, but he was sure trying, treating his poor Seer like that, not to mention the way he dried up the grass. But the day the blood started boiling in their veins, that was the day this war was lost.
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Deimos - 07-09-2012
 Their God created a monster. In primal droves the nefarious Deimos harked carnal reverie within a strumming, untapped power, enticing repulsion and muted salvation amongst fiendish, undulating muscles that possessed and controlled in demonic, sinuous finesse. He was a blend of primordial domination and serpentine desolation, an immaculate enrapture of infidel ardor, molded and sculpted for familial pursuits, grinding and driving his desolate, arcane frame into the screaming, whimpering frenzy of maddened enemies until the finale of a last pulse twitched a sullen artery. His presence screeched resonating, pervading, suffocating and stifling immorality, overbearing in its contemptuous ire, forlorn and wretched in the restrained, fervent decorum of his predatory motions. Blessed to singe and seethe for his comrades, to swipe a furious cutlass across opposing throats, to bear arms in a lone, dwindling catacomb for supremacy – to arch in a lithe, supple embrace of strength and corruption, to descend in a lissome stroke of tyranny and anarchy, singeing salvation and tormenting deliverance. A slashing pawn designed to destroy, a feverish marionette devised to ruin, a lone soldier to shelter the storm for the prodigal son, misplacing the figures of attachment and emotion as he swept a dynasty’s bleached bones. Compassion decays, beneficence rots, and clemency withers, collapsing in the corrosion of his blackened heart until there is naught, naught but that dreaded slate of insouciance postured violently across his handsome features.
The wind whispered ethereal canticles against the tight strings of his might and brawn, a sultry cavalcade of fatal hymns, mourning the embrace of day and the hindrance of night. He simmered in the bows of shadows and webbing of twilight, coolly immersed in the tangible streak of nocturne silk, hushed and unabated, as dangerous as he’d been moments before. His breath ghosted over the dim rim of moonlight, casting a specter shade of behemoth interludes kindling in a frenzied, dire moment of intensity, before they rippled and tore away into the witching hour’s brew. A threatening, callous bounty of sin and iniquity, twisted into the rigid entity of havoc, a taciturn, reticent menace twined in the anarchic solemnity of corruption, he stared, rustling apathy in the cool balm of his sinister, argent glare. Quiet in his abhorrence, his calculating air caught the dark traces of another, poised along the borders of charred hell, bestial damnation. He was unaware of his status, but the clinging scent spoke of Edge, warped and sullied as the rest of ashen heraldry. The other called for their King, the icy Mauja, and no sooner had the stroke of discordance been uttered then the monarch approached. He, the apparition’s smooth trace of ravished reaper puissance, came forward, muscles wound with precious, sanctimonious control, authoritative, ferocious steps, pulsing indifference despite the daunting weight of the hour. They drove to the depths of the meeting, then onward, a stronghold from his venomous manipulations, into the murky shades of the moon’s veil, the blackguard of the devil’s party. The sinister fatality of his stare remarked first upon the sovereign beast, a silent nod bestowed by a twist of his archaic head, then to the unknown caller. There, he occupied the land with the stifling, startling brevity of his silence, the singular discordance of his intangible strokes. ”Hn.”
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Ambrosius - 07-13-2012
"Mauja... I-" What the fuck had happened to him? Ambrose observed him with scrutiny, though he was adept in veiling his emotions behind a stoical guise. "-would like to do something more, meaningful, for the Edge." Head held high, he regarded his monarch with a rather indifferent outlook despite distinctly abstaining from fully conveying the emotion. He didn't exactly reek of obedience or respect, but neither did he evoke a sense of contempt. As customary, he possessed an almost aloof aura: distant and cold, his mind stirring with thoughts better left unexplored.
A violent snort burst from his nostrils as he regarded the black unicorn whom stood a significant measure shorter than he, though he was yet to be enlightened as to what rank he retained within the herd and he therefore held his tongue. He was a new addition, this was evident, and Ambrose had been here far longer than he. He almost felt threatened by the manner in which he greeted him, but knowing it was nothing to dwell upon he thrust it aside, for this stallion was not important to him - at least not at the current moment. "I wish to become a warrior." He averred the allegation with inherent insouciance, his gaze repositioning upon the ivory stallion before allowing the dialogue to slew from his ragged, fusain lips.
He knew what prescripts such a rank would postulate, and he was more than willing to comply with them. "I wish to join the cause," He arched his compact neck as to better display his horn, for he had a hunch that Mauja might recognize such a gesture as a hint toward the Plague. "I will help you rid the earth of those disgusting vermin," His eyes had begun to boil a crimsoned ebony. He suspended his head back to its normal position once he had finished articulating the words, his tongue deliberate and vehement as they rolled from his palate. His head tilted nearly undetectably, a peculiar reflex as he continued his speech, his soulless eyes regarding Mauja with a diffident silvery pigment. "...if you would accept me."
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Mauja - 07-14-2012
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Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign
The tall, sleek stallion was regarding him with intensity in his gaze - as if trying to peer into his very heart. Curious, Mauja's head tilted to the side. Whoever had taught Ambrose to cloak his face was good, for the black stallion himself was good, speaking softly, proudly, and giving nothing away except that sharp glint of curiosity in his ever-shifting eyes. It felt like standing next to his own shadow, a veiled creature, a mirror; perhaps he should've been unnerved, at being watched so, but he wasn't. He could handle himself. And after all, all Ambrose gave him was his usual stoic facade, simply tinged with a little more.. interest than usual. It was either good or bad, or meant nothing at all. Mauja shrugged it off, nickering quietly to Deimos when he slid out of the darkness like a snake. The blue top of his long horn led the way, and for a moment the King fastened his eyes on its tip. He was far from blind, though it would easily seem so at night; he acknowledged Ambrose's words with a nod. "That pleases me," he murmured, waiting for the stallion to finish his scrutiny of Deimos. Who didn't feel just a little strange in the company of the Life-Eater?
A warrior. He'd been expecting it, really, but merely flicked his raven-decked tail at the words. Thin strands slapped against his ghastly hocks, a low hum slipping out of his maw - moonlight glinted off the length of Ambrose's horn, and Mauja arched one 'brow. The cause. Had he been eavesdropping? Had someone told him? Psyche? The Plague was quite the secret, of course, and he liked to keep tabs on those who couldn't keep their mouths shut. If it was Psyche, though, then it was alright... But he couldn't know without asking. Mauja focused his eerie night-eyes on the black creature again. Such vehemence. Though it was true that the hornless were little more than vermin, Mauja himself rarely used the term. Who knew when his tongue would slip him up if he got used to throwing such words about? He was always dancing on the knife's edge, and it would be so easy to cut himself...
"Have you met Deimos, Ambrose?" Mauja asked, sidling up closer to the gray beast. He'd not killed him the last time, and hopefully wouldn't now; and if he did, well, then Mauja had most certainly cut himself badly on the knife's edge. He gave his usual smile, the small, wry little gesture, and sidestepped into Deimos' sphere of death. It sucked away at his will, at his energy, but he acted as if he didn't feel it at all - he'd spied the ashen beast eating, briefly touching things with his muzzle without killing them. The FrostHeart placed his trust in that, amazed at how he simply trusted Deimos not to kill him (he hardly trusted, and that lay at the core of his amazement) - he leaned in, blew hot air on Deimos' muzzle before bumping against it. Just the proximity of it... Smoothly he stepped forward, out of the death zone. Any encounter with Deimos usually left him feeling drained, and he wished he could just run away and sleep for a thousand years. He always wished he could do that. And he never could.
He continued up to Ambrose, repeating the greeting with him - hot air, muzzle bump. "I want you to do something. Go stand close to him. He's a fellow warrior." Still smiling, Mauja stepped back to allow the black stallion to pass. It'd be a fine test indeed... He was glad Deimos had come along. Not only was he fascinated with him and his powers, but he was quite useful, too. He only hoped he wouldn't upset his feelings by using him like this, but it'd certainly be a fine test for Ambrose's resolve. He favored the gray beast with a fond smile, before directing his soft voice at the black again. "Who told you, of the cause?" An all-unicorn herd was suspicious, he'd admit to that, but it took some actual knowledge to know that there was an underground operation going on. Mauja wanted to know, even if he'd have to tear the name out of his mouth.
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Deimos - 07-17-2012
He’s fused, stirred, into the crag of wicked and heinous demons. Debauched, licentious and decadent, an abandoned, dissipated gift of death and dissolution, claimed by the Acheron and the fiendish, sullied breath of eternal damnation. He burned, scorched, singed, and seared with each tumultuous inhalation of air, scattering, banishing, the fine caresses of life, absconding the essence of existence with a shattering, piercing void. Beneath the shambles of insouciant control and arduous composure, malice and menace embroiled in the forlorn sentience of nocturnal sinistery, pulsing, a feverish indulgence furtively stoked in the aching desires of sidling treachery; singeing, seething, coiling in the serpentine strokes of vicious vipers. An archaic denizen of sin against skin, sliding into the rancorous depths of humanity, unholy stitches and seams, a carnal reverie of destruction and mayhem, chaos mired and entangled in nefarious caresses, minatory kisses, fatality in the iniquitous hymns of his quiet motions. A haunting, melancholic twist to a desolate heart, molded so firmly in the darkening tresses of poignant, passionate poison, the ardent fury of restraint and supremacy, the intimidating plunge of callous corruption. The enigmatic fortitude of his being was encased in lacquered armaments of bedlam, contorted and intertwined in the laced, irreverent, warrior endeavors of a satanic seraph, poised to siege, plunder, destroy – and in this world, this heathen realm with its savage barbarians, cruel, precarious sanctums and tormented brethren, infidel abominations, he was home. The demon guarding the gates, the phantom whispering over mayhem, the argent Cerebrus in the dusky, hallowed nights consuming bodies, lacerating hearts, piercing souls.
He ignored the other stallion. His predatory, rapacious gaze settled elsewhere, indifferent and calloused, listening, but otherwise predisposed to apathy and indifference. His leader, eerie in the shadows of twilight, proffered his hardened, cruel presence a welcome; in return, he lifted his maw towards the spotted creature, and flickered his stare upon the charred edges of the wood. This Ambrose requested a rank, the polished sword of warrior, promised brutality in the ambitious, aspiring candor of his speech. In his flagrant nonchalance, Deimos merely watched, silent and studious in the rigid display of intentions. His eyes, cool, frigid, glacial, swept to the luminous Mauja, furtive, specious, Machiavellian, scheming, witnessing in the darkened heat of spectral wantings – then suddenly, he became the focus.
The leader idled closer to him, a sly, conniving sidle that chiseled brash movements, presumptuous and insolent, brushing into the treacherous and precarious layers of his own mage artillery. The indifferent monster, beast, savage, narrowed his stare and watched as his leader barged into his wild depths, touched his muzzle, poised at the only sanction of his vicious body that didn’t emit deadly daggers. In response, he burned. He’d been allowed to commit the act once, and only once, in surprise, in incredulity, in bewilderment, but not again would the barbaric statue permit his sovereign’s brazen-gratification upon his person. I will be a weapon, but never a toy. In the vivid, thick silence, a warning ensued, festering, pricking, lancing at the flesh of his silvern carcass, flaring in the rancorous bliss of derision, scorn, contempt unto the monarch. The poisonous vectors of his wicked necromancy reverberated in an abhorrent thrum, a bewitching cadence of alluring brevity, entrancing, enchanting, one to take their last breath, their carved finale. Draining, intoxicating, it hummed with the wicked delusion of grandeur, Lucifer’s opulence, daring, dauntless, audacious in the pricking, puncturing grasp of mortality. His chilling glare fell from the valiant, though foolish, ruler, and unto the other. His presence was to be this beast’s test of resolve? His challenge? And would he, the intimidating, formidable Deimos, be allotted to wreak havoc on the stag’s body, or simply simper, be a marionette on a shelf of puppets? He’d pledged loyalty, to the cause, to the cadre, and in this muddled mess, he was sworn into an allegiance that was now using him as an examination piece. But still, he stood, beguilingly brutal, honoring his portion of code, the quiet, silent menace that breathed augur sentiments.
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Ambrosius - 07-21-2012
Soulless eyes watched as the FrostKing neared the other stallion, the words he uttered poured apathetically into the indolent ears of the shadowy brute. His brow raised as the alabaster virile assumed position at the stallion's side, bumping his muzzle against the muzzle of the one he called Deimos. "No." He affirmed distinctly before mutely observing Mauja with a distant, glacial expression. Was the intimacy necessary? Was there something deeper going on between them than what visual perception could comprehend, as in the ultraviolet irradiation in the undulation of magic, wispy and undetectable to the naked eye?
Ambrose flicked his leonine tail apathetically in reception to the unsavory alighting of a horsefly upon his haunches as the obsidian-dappled male pulled away. Despite his most fruitful attempts to conceal his fatigue, it was evidenced in the way his ivory tail hung limp; his ears reigned forward with less intensity; the silent pools of his eyes: the most subtle of signals which most never heed. There is a reason Ambrose is the way he is: glacial, calculating, calloused. Much of it has been molded throughout his questionable past, and he has learned that words are sometimes useless. It's the action of an individual that he pays homage to, for they verbalize more accurately the majority of the time than any phrase or wordage ever could.
Silvern irises began to pinch such, narrowing ever slightly as Mauja began to approach, skeptical of the stallion's intentions. Go stand close to him. Ambrose snorted viciously, but he complied. With each stride closer an ambient weariness arrested his anatomy, each hoof fall executed became a more harrowing endeavor. On the outside, he appeared unaffected. Inwardly, he could sense his muscles straining, his heart beat slackening, his breathing becoming more laborious despite maintaining a chronic interval of rising and falling.
He stood beside him, the irrevocable occurrence of his being drawn toward him as if his soul threatened to emerge from its physical bonds. He rivaled against it, or at least employed a vehement effort. It proved to be inauspicious. After all, how does one contend the overpowering forcefulness of magic? It is impossible. Who told you, of the cause? His mind seethed incoherently, searching for the name he was convinced bristled at the tip of his tongue. His nostrils flexed with each breath, drawn out and steady as it erupted from his body. "Psyche." The name was finally retrieved from its burrow in the concealing confines of his mind.
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Mauja - 07-23-2012
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Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign
A sudden rush, much like a gust of wind, ripped through him, or rather, out of him. A sensation like having the air punched out of his lungs, his heart skipping a beat and a nearly nauseating wave of adrenaline swept through him; he knew the source, knew it even as he smiled his maddening little smile and stood close to the ash-coated beast. The only thing which gave it away was a slight shadow flashing across his clouded eyes, the barest frown, there and then gone as quickly as it had come. Behind him, his tail twitched against his hocks as it always did, and once the burst of surprise at Deimos' strength had fled him, the smooth mask was in place again. Truly, he had deserved that. Play with fire you get burned. A good thing Kou wasn't here. Without giving any other indication of what awaited near the warrior, Mauja slid away across the charred forest floor, moving with the same easy grace as always. Interest lingered in his blue eyes as he watched Ambrose close the distance, bearing his slim black body closer to the walking doombringer. He held up well, giving nothing away as death's powers ate away at him. Mauja's smile widened a fraction. Ambrose had a control over his body and reactions, one that rivaled with his own; it was a useful tidbit of information, that the reason for his stoicism wasn't stupidity, but control.
"Psyche," the black beast grunted and Mauja gave a thoughtful nod. If she had deemed him worthy of knowing the cause, and of knowing its nature, he would do. It also saved Mauja the problem of dealing with slack-mouthed Plague members. Slowly, he allowed his roaming eyes to settle back on the pair. Would Ambrose bleed out, die standing, or would his body collapse in a faint before death occurred? Would Deimos just stand there and do it, or did he have a spark of kindness - of mercy - in him? In all honesty, the FrostHeart doubted he remembered compassion, devotion, these tattered shreds which made great, but foolish, hearts. His warning had been more than enough. Either he did not want to play the King's silly games, or he did not want to be touched. Maybe it was some warped form of care, that he didn't want to accidentally kill anyone, so not touching at all was best? He didn't know, and mused in silence, his tail flicking behind him as it was wont to do when he thought.
Perhaps killing the new Plague member wasn't the best course of action.
"Hmm..." he breathed, breaking the silence of the night forest. He scraped a hoof across the forest floor, a thin trail of frost left in its wake; it melted slowly in the temperate air. Ambrose was taller than Deimos, perhaps thinner too - his horn was definitely shorter, though. His face was all covered in chopped-up white. "Why don't you test your skills against one another?" While delivered as a question, it was a veiled order; he'd accepted Deimos just like that, but he'd love to see what his myrkurdýr could do in a battle, which physical skills he possessed. It would also serve as Ambrose's skill test. Mauja backed further from the pair, a ghost in the forest, shimmering like a wraith among the trees. The small, wicked smile came back to his face, mirrored by the sharpness in his eyes; he could steal off and sleep back his energy after this. Just a little longer... He could hold out, could force the brightness and edge - he'd lived this kind of life long enough to fake energy even when exhausted.
"Begin," he whispered from the darkness.
( Soo, you can just do a 3 post fight (or something, whatever you want ^^) right in this thread, Mauja will just watch until it's done. If you want it judged I'll hold off Mau's reply until a victor is announced. Sounds good? :3 )
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RE: Seeking an Audience | mauja - Deimos - 07-23-2012
The ice sovereign continued to command irritating, cumbersome things of his deadly person and prowess. That wicked, malignant smile alighted on the monarch’s features, and Deimos knew he would be subject to some other crude examination. What was ignited and required was a duel, a spar; a way to witness the practices of one’s warriors, those regaled with such high prestige. Yet, the circumstances surrounding this test of skills were hindering, restraining: the argent creature, this feral, foul cretin, would have to be in far more control of his necromancy. While he usually contained his movements in rigid, firm authority, this feud would have to assess just how far he could repress and subdue a poisonous, plundering vector, reaper brought to life. There was no profiting from a dead ally. His heinous gaze turned to study this Ambrose, a guileful swing of his eyes, scrutinizing, studying, analyzing. The Stygian foe was larger, brawny yet refined, where Deimos was slighter in height, yet not in bulk. Who would be swifter, who would be hardier? He was too far away to ascertain any scars, any remnants of prior experience, but the Tartarean brute was sure, due to the lacquered formation of constraint aligned upon his character, that this stallion had fought before. The battle would certainly prove to be interesting. With a simple nod given to leader and opponent, he moved.
And despite his heavy, foreboding silence, on the battlefield, he sang.
What was normally rigid, taut, strung together in an unyielding stature, became fluid, a fatal hymn and lethal lament. Undulating muscles pulsed bestial elegance, a corrupted, debauched and depraved serenity against the throngs of the scorched, parched land. Quiet, hushed movements, a shaded, shadowy fixture in the sun’s beaming light, drummed against the dry earth, a rapacious, rhythmic chant of puissance. A recoiling grace, a monstrous coil, he rippled closer, nefarious and brooding, stoic features remaining poised, intangible threads of ethereal nonchalance. He breathed in the stifling, suffocating air, boiled in the oppressive heat, and simmered in the heralded siege, tucking his fiendish head against his chest in a protective, defensive gesture – the devilish, choking throbs of warmth only made him more hostile, tempestuous, but wary. His stride increased, a powerful crescendo of swarthy, silvern limbs, until he was drawn towards Ambrose’s left side. As his movements carried his predatory carcass, the minatory clamor of assailment seized him whole, embracing the solid forms of assault instead of eldritch incantations, burying them in his argent, menacing skin. He angled his regal head towards the body of his opponent, aiming the lengthy, darkened horn towards the ebon titan’s shoulder, longing to pierce, plunge, penetrate flesh, intending to drag it down the length of his form as he rushed by. Upon arriving at the edge of the other brute’s structure, the front of his muscular frame swerved away, and he swung his hind end towards the horned brethren, back hooves rushing towards hocks and lower limbs.
Summary: Deimos tucks his head against his chest and comes upon Ambrose’s left side, intending to drag his horn along Ambrose’s shoulder, barrel, etc. As he rushes by, he swings the front of his body away and tries to use his back feet to kick towards Ambrose’s lower legs. He is attempting to control his magic, so we don’t need to worry about any draining in this post.
Post: 1/3
Ooc: I have no preference, so whatever you would like to do, Phantom. :D I would enjoy a judging, just so I know what I can work on (its been such a long time since I’ve fought and who knows if I’ve even simplified this thing enough >.<). Please let me know if there was anything confusing or something I did wrong so I can fix it. Happy sparring with you!
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