May angels protect you |
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
make me bow
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03-01-2014, 11:22 PM
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
con by aihnna@dABears the name of "Battle Born"
03-02-2014, 02:43 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-02-2014, 03:28 PM by Confutatis.)
Demonic in her sadistic intents, ugly in her rage; she advances, impetuous and cruel, towards the stallion of crimson and scarlet. Where he is cold and contained, she is wicked and wild. She is the damned, the mare doomed to the seven hells, a devil clothed in satire of midnight skin and bone, crowned with her evil and her ambition. Not a common slut to be used, a pretty whore to sell herself to the highest bidder, but a queen who would enslave and punish, leave behind her a trail of blood and desecration as she burned them all down. Who better to first taste her wrath than a boy dressed in blood? Her eyes are feral in her wordless fury, jaw working itself to a sullen ache as her lips lather with acidic foam, dripping and bubbling. Does he see her darkness? Does he not see her craze, her unwillingness to bend to the punishing punch of his words, that she was COMING FOR HIM when the sun went down and no-one was around to protect his idiotic pride? The stallion thought himself better than her, but nobody was, nobody could be. Mortal flesh could not withstand her presence, hearts withered and shrank from her wicked touch and the taste of her black magic- he would be no different. She would knock on his windows, tear down his door, and watch him squirm and scream beneath her while she shattered his ribcage and rended his puny heart from dripping chest. How she despises Déodat's mockery- so she did not get to mount like a stallion did, she had to sit under the weight of thrusting hips- did this make her any lesser of a warrior, of a ruler? Still she had teeth and hooves, the wickedness of her vile sorcery. She had borne herself through the pains of childbirth, and any mare who had gone through that knew that no amount of pain on the battlefield could compare to expelling a foal from the womb. FUCK him and his beliefs. “Sexist bitch,” she snarls, her voice full of poison, writhing like snakes if the reptiles were sounds. “I am the daughter of demons, the crawl of unseen monsters in the shadows. You do not play with bitches and devils; YOU RUN AWAY.” The bones of her family press against her ribs and haunches. They are here with her, even if others have forgotten them. The hellion vows in silence to uphold their name; she will be defeated no longer. Today she would arise victorious, and this unicorn would take back his insults. The Demon Days may be over, but they would come again, one step at a time. Poisonous orbs slit as he speaks easily- ooh, all right, I'll fight you (as if you had any fucking choice, stupid little dick she thinks to herself)- as if he is simply shrugging off her heinous taunts and biting challenges. Did he not realize she was a weathered mare of war? No matter if he did not take her seriously. Once she stripped him bare of muscle and the intricate mappings of veins he would find himself regretting his oh-so-casual indifference. Her Mongrel stays behind her as she steps forwards, a royally slow progression. It is magic Confutatis focuses on, rather than attacking immediately. The magic of rot is always there, a seething force of malignant energy, shifting waves which vary in size of the area it encompasses, but never reaching past a radius of five meters. A slight sweat breaks out over oily shoulder and neck as she concentrates; the sorcery is difficult and tedious to maneuver, reluctant to obey her demands, preferring to crawl and slither over nothingness and to nibble at the flesh of small, scurrying creatures. There is a presence to it, a living sense of death, and she lets out gentle sigh as it wraps around her, curling close to her obsidian flesh, yet not quite touching her charcoal skin. Eyes flick up towards dear Déodat, lips curling into a vindictive leer that is terrifying to behold. Lady Death stands, hopefully face-to-face as they had been just moments ago, a couple of meters away; and then charges, hooves clattering on the crystal floor, ears twisted and pinning to knotted mane, aiming to move to his left side. If successful, she hopes to twist her cranium over his haunches to bite down on the end of the spine, towards his tail, while simultaneously swishing up her tail, aiming towards his face to give him a stinging bitch slap. She hopes he likes her poison kisses to be lavished upon his scarlet body; soon he will not need to appear red as blood, because he will be covered in gore. How was that for irony? 1/3 WC: 800 Summary: Brings her magic 'into' her so unless he touches her skin, he will not begin to rot. Activates poison mouth magic. Charges to his left, her right, aims to bite down on his croup, tail swinging up to hopefully swat him in the face.
Join the Regime.
♛
03-06-2014, 02:21 AM
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
con by aihnna@dABears the name of "Battle Born"
03-15-2014, 11:10 PM
She seethes, poison and ruin ensnared and entrapped within the confines of her skin black as sin; perhaps this is what makes her foolhardy, so wild and feral as to forget her calculations and tactics. Heedless of what she should do and what she should not, she charges, without thought for where to aim, how to prepare for his response, how to counter-attacker his attacks; there are the reverberations of her hooves on glass and diamond, the rattle of her dry lungs, the storms of ebony cloud and silver lightning that curl and cradle around her foul heart. It is not good enough. What does she see but the blood prince, cloaked in scarlet and snow, evading her; she tries, oh she tries, to twist, to change her assault, but to no avail- she is, alas, doomed in this regard. It rages through her, winter winds through the crags of her mountainous mind, howling loud as the wolves, snarling and snapping around nook and cranny; failure. Contempt and disdain writhes in the soulless hollow of her empty ribcage- how dare she bring shame to the name of her distant fathers, the Womanizer and Demon King? She was their daughter, and it was not only her right but her duty to prove them proud, to reinforce their might and strength into the minds of the mortal men; she was the beast beneath their beds, the monster in the closet, the simmering eyes in the darkness; she must trim and cut her obsidian shape into perfect form; she was to be a quean, and losing to a lowly crimson lord would be prohibited. Yet here Confutatis was, not landing a singular blow upon the dapper hide of his. Unlike Déodat, upon her failure of a charge she does not halt; she slows from gallop to canter, wary of the treacherous footing underneath her. Each step is picked with care, lest her keratins slip out from beneath her, which would be not only a humbling embarassment but something of which would incline her to failure (which she will NOT tolerate, not from this mangy hornheaded cur- she would fuck her companion before that happened.) The mare's nares widen, and she drinks in the musky air- she hears the tattoo of his hooves behind her, the drums of war, and she lets drift a wicked smile over her lips. Does he truly think to outrun her? He is fat and tall, a broadsword, whereas she is slim and graceful as a knife between his ribs; she wants to know how close he'll come, and she slows as the passage narrows ahead, letting him come tantalizing near to her hips- she wonders if she is in heat, for her thighs are aching and all she can smell is him and winter. Hooves dig into the glossy surface of the floor, and she slithers to ungraceful halt, ducking down her cranium and lashing upwards with her hind legs, towards his face and mouth full of pretty white ivories. He would not look so handsome when he found himself missing a tooth or two, she was confident- and that was rather good, because she abhorred him and all the sultry attractiveness to his artistic musculature. Alongside the simple pleasure of imaging his jagged ruined teeth, she well remembered the pain the Merciful had dealt her with a crushing blow to her skull; the crack as the bones beneath her sleek pale face fractured beneath the weight of the damage. A split skull was no laughing matter- it was a month of headaches and gritted teeth, a month of lingering and lurking in dark shadows and hoping the throbbing would go away sooner rather than later. A scandalous grins flowers on her lips at the thought of the bastard brought to his knees in agony. Her mongrel is not useless as she plays a sly game of catch-me-if-you-can; he creeps and scuttles along the crystalline walls, all glimmering eyes and bared teeth, weaving and painting images of devious intent; but not yet, it would not happen yet, he would keep his nightmarish illusions in hand until his compatriot bequeathed him of it or was in need. Hallucinations, however, are little compared to the Queen Bitch's own sorcery: nefarious tendrils of magic that curl and crawl out from the bucking mare, drawn towards flesh, veils of rot and ruin aiming to desecrate and destroy, devour and annihilate the succulent flesh. Would he scream? He had not screamed before- but then she had not been so angry, so full of justified fury; before she had not wanted to peel back his skin and caress the inner working of organ and heart, to slather his ribcage in the poison of her mouth and crack down on bone and chew on sinew. 2/3 + 0/1 WC: 800 Summary: Since Confutatis has a higher speed stat than Deo, I played it where he could not catch up until she slowed; she then bucked upwards towards his face/chest, while her companion prepares his illusions. As she bucks, she releases her decay magic towards him, in hopes it will rot any part of him.
Join the Regime.
♛
03-18-2014, 02:01 AM
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
con by aihnna@dABears the name of "Battle Born"
03-20-2014, 11:57 PM
There was no shriek of agony, no wail of torment; her heart sinks a little, and she wishes she could glance over a shoulder, to see if he had been struck dumb or if perhaps the wave of black magic had simply slithered right by him. The sorcery had seemed to work, as the wolf could feel the nefarious magic drinking her reserves of energy, leaving each step a little harder to take and each clack of hoof on perilous diamond floor more wearisome, and yet there was no rewarding cry of pain. It was a rather atrociously horrible thought to think- what if her magic had simply deflected off him? Was he impervious to the blemishes that would kiss and caress his wine skin and paint him red with the true form of blood? No, surely that could not be so; she had used it on him immediately prior to their game of bruises and smacking bodies, watched the art appear on the red canvas that was his coat. It is only the reassurance of her mongrel that keeps her from doing something foolish, like swinging her cranium back only to no doubt shift her balance and allow him to get in an easy blow. She feels it, the keening pressure of his mind on her's, a promise that indeed gangrene and infection sprang into life on Déodat's ruby pelt; and she takes comfort in the fact, her heart skipping a beat as she envisions his face contorted and writhing at the damage she dealt single-handedly to him. Even despite the exhaustion that begins to weigh down hip and neck, she glories in the triumph, revels in her skill, primps and feeds her ego; ha, she was defeating him, look at him, was he so proud now when he was unable to land hoof or horn on her scarred corpse? Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a blurred smear of scarlet hair breezing by; her jaw props open, astonished at the spurt of speed that had allowed him to charge ahead of her. Teeth then snap shut, grinding together, ears pinning to neck- she would not allow this little lordling to rule over her, she would not allow him to float through this fight as if it were something he did every day. She was the wolf, descended from the Womanizer and the Demon King, Morgue and Oblivion; she was the union of two mighty bloodlines, and she would show Helovia their wrath by every breath she took and every beat of her pounding heart. Hooves crack down on glittering floors as she begins sliding to a halt as the unicorn turns back to face her, glittering violet horn thrusting forwards to her neck. No; he will not have the satisfaction of touching her, even in violence. Her sinful pelt was far too good for the likes of dogs such as him- he would have to lust from afar, drool as she stalked by, a decayed stallion who could never have the honor of her loins. Instead, she drives herself at the wall, the wall glittering with diamonds and crystals of unknown origin. She is not moving as fast as she could have been, luckily; instead of completely winding up a mess of bruised meat and exposed muscle, the infinite crystals grate and scrape against her left side, still peeling back numerous layers of skin. One particularly large ruby catches her on the hip, and her eyes squeeze shut, immediately pulling away from the side of the hallway. Confutatis' breath grates a little too quickly in her chest- but surely she cannot be tiring so soon? The fight has only just begun, after all. Yet with every step, her left side is stinging at best, and parts of her curvaceous body that took on the majority of the damage hurts in particular, the shoulder and hip; the injuries she has brought upon herself scorches and burns, the hundreds of nerve endings bitching to no end about the abuse she has bestowed upon them. The yako shares in her pain, being bonded to her (whether he likes it or not); it is now he launches his attack, with visions spun of lust and love, of the unicorn stallion mounting the wolf, horn torn from skull, all bleeding eye sockets and dripping nostrils; he hopes to catch Déodat off-guard, and give his compatriot a moment to recover. But she refuses, she abhors the idea of needing a 'break' from the battle. As her foe turned back to come alongside her, she cowkicks towards his left hind hock; immediately following this, she lunges at the eye and ear nearest to her (his left), hoping to grab onto the precious indigo eye and steal from him his vision. 3/3 + 0/1 WC: 798 OOC: I hope I dealt with all the attacks appropriately, I wasn't 100% sure about what Deo was doing at the end :3
Join the Regime.
♛
04-15-2014, 08:56 PM
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
con by aihnna@dABears the name of "Battle Born"
Past 3 weeks, default win to Deodat! 0.5VP awarded.
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