the Rift


[PRIVATE] The undone and the divine

Huyana Posts: 83
Aurora Basin Scholar
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE
Krazie
#1



Like the timid first rains after a drought, thin threads of pale light outlined the darkness. Eyes, so unaccustomed to such brightness, flinch instinctively but are still so hungry for the sight. The pale slivers widen, golden fingers wresting apart the unlight, illuminating pieces of sky framed by clawlike branches. At first the world is grey, but as the sun affirms its tenuous ascent, sunlight flooded every shadow with gilded brilliance. It lit the depths of her eyes like swimming-pools in summertime, it kindled a spark in her heart which drove her ever forward, hungry for the light. Half-blinded and mad with hope, the roan plunged through the grey forest, cautiously delighted as she swam through the rays of sun which filtered steadily through lush green leaves. Her lissome body, sleek with health and care and spring grass, glowed as it passed beneath shadows and through luminescence, every inch of her blue frame gilded with dawn. She threw up her heels, sending a flurry of dead leaves and dust swirling in her wake. Huyana became a forest nymph, carefree and reckless, her dark mane the only traces of that cruel gloom.

The rainchild laughed and danced madly, hair swirling glamorously in her wake as she twisted and turned and wobbled. Bliss swelled every pore like water infiltrating dead wood, threatening to burst. Warmth bloomed and spread over her skin as the sun rose, and her illuminated form capered and bucked through the forest. Even the trees seemed to rejoice with the cavorting maiden, swaying to some ancient tune.

Then, it began to fall.

At first it barely grazed the uppermost leaves, shyly trickling down to the forest floor; but as the clouds began to gather in this seemingly endless sky, the drops thrummed and rollicked like the girl below, dripping off the edges of leaves and dampening whatever dryness the sun had brought.

If Huyana had been elated before, now she was exuberant, eyes widening with bewilderment as the raindrops caught on her lashes, rolled down her horn, collected on her back. Hooves dug into the forest's carpet, effectively halting her romp—she cried out in amazement; this was what she had been waiting for all these sunless months, what she had been denied for such a cruelly long time. She shut her eyes and found herself ambling in circles, hooves churning mud as the rain fell harder, until a pale halo hung over her drenched form, rainbows glimmering along her body where light caught the raindrops. She laughed and laughed until her sides hurt and she danced until her limbs were numb, and then she just was; letting the rain wash away her cares and unhappiness until all that was left was Huyana, a girl who loved.


Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#2
Selfish dregs constructed his severe sinew, bedlam, iniquity, and immorality composed his flesh, and he remained eternally aware of his mercenary murmurs, his rasping, avaricious, acquisitive machinations. The Reaper was a Machiavellian monument and monolith bent on cravings, longings and yearnings, carving intimacies of each greedy ambition, each ravenous, voracious slip of the tongue, the press, the twist, the distortion of his covetous, selfish appetite. When he wanted, he sought, plucked and ravished, ravaged empires, destroyed kingdoms, untangled flesh from bone, harpooned legacies into meaningless, debauched fragments. When he desired, he absconded, stole, obliterated and annihilated, became witness and ferryman, scythe and sword, to the massacre of benediction, to the murder of beneficence. When he coveted, he mauled, brutalized and conveyed the predacious existence of his ethereal, sinister conjectures, sinuously gliding into the mist, into the murk, for satanic treachery, for malicious abhorrence. To scar, to devastate, to maim and mutilate, sunder and tear apart the cataclysms, canvases, and chaos. Deimos could be naught more than a black, black heart, divided and rotting to the core, irreverent under the covers of his meticulous, scrupulous necromancy, grasping, toying, clinging to the rippling sanctity of derision. Callous indulgences, heated lacerations, molten altars to wicked, Mephistophelean catastrophes, lecherous salutations from devils, demons and fiends, carved, sculpted enigmas of heathen debaucheries; the unraveling of his bedroom hymns. Diabolical, sinister wake of nefarious essences, the body, the tempest, the tumultuous, the pernicious and powerful figure of an infernal pillar, grating, harsh, unrelenting and ruthless, possessive. Only now was he lost and perplexed, caught in the feverish ache, the unwinding midst of anomalies and queries, consuming, devouring, swallowing the veritable virtue, the delicious divinities, the sweet, noxious bloom of cascading showers; allowing his frame to slip into the dusky hallows and hollows of the rain.

He was drowning.

The General didn’t dare inhale or exhale, lost in the art, in the web, in the fold of grace, cleverly seduced, enticed, beguiled into muted contortions. Blinded and decomposed in the ravenous compassion of his feral incantations, his heart spread apart in licentious temptation, heated anticipation, sumptuous labor, villainous embraces and upheavals. Infatuation, like a serrated blade, sunk into the gallows of his iniquitous patterns, unraveling distance, detachment and menace, entangling in the reticence absolution of his weakening bastions and barricades. She’d worn away the edges of his carefully constructed walls, eroded merciless breaths, swept over the undone, the atrocious, the heinous, until he was frightened to discover what lay beneath, until he detested the idea of losing himself to the whispers, to the dreams, to the lucid repose of her tranquil grasp. Pushed into the deep fathoms of her serene grandeur, paralyzed, trapped, ensconced in the scalding, searing, smoldering labyrinth, and failing to unravel the threads of departure. But, if she stripped him down, what would he be under the deleterious canvas, the stony statue? If she confiscated his fortifications, what would be found beside his wretched considerations, his sinful sentiments? Naked and bereft, a desolate wasteland renounced, forsaken? Smothered in the wake of innocence lost, scions forgotten, tarnished, warmth revoked, tenderness fettered, withered? A forging of degradation, seditious and longing, clutching to the bombardments of immorality, to the choking demands of sinuous art and Tartarean discord? Loss, unfeeling, ruthless conniving eaves of wretched sovereignty, the spells, the chains, the laments and dirges strung into silent croons? If he gave himself to her, offered the rigid, unyielding slivers and splinters, the shambles and scraps, would he be completely, mercilessly, undone? What would it be like to fall apart, seam-by-seam, stitch-by-stitch, bare, exposed, uncovered?

Structured into antipathy, sculpted into animosity, singed into acrimony, he followed the wayward trail of her travels, haunted her primrose paths, stalked the feverish contemplations of her nymph wanderings. Snarled and besotted into the boughs’ incredulous strokes, the rancorous morass, the bitter warren, the fractious forest blended and blurred his movements, contorted his motions into the sinister scrape of his infidel intentions, contorted and cloaked his demonic entanglement. Intertwined within the bold, audacious splendor of its haughty prowess, disastrous desires, ravenous, hushed furor, unsung insurrection. Primordial treachery cast across a savage, scintillating undulation, chilling, formidable muscle enameled and lacquered upon abhorrent rubble and ruin. Drawn by the swell of her laughter, the pique of her soul, spirit, nature, dominated and controlled by the spark and kindle of her purity, he pursued, hunted, chased, plundering the streaks of sunlight, the radiance of rapture. The roughened deliverance of his Stygian munitions blended the vicious vessels of his blood, constricted them into vile, inflexible, unbending inclinations, suffering at the strokes of her merriment, the intense deliberations of her exuberance. Already caught, already derailed, already seized and apprehended, he didn’t fight the destruction of his fortress, and for once, left nearly everything unguarded – only the fixated angles of an indifferent face hid the fire, ferocity and passion, incensed into garroted chords, into neglected, laboring hisses. Terror and horror only made its presence known by the sibilation of its dangerous strands with a feral, wanton, corrupt sound, sliding amongst the ornate shadows of its fervent inflections, standing lengths away, untouchable, unattainable all over again. “Huyana.” Heresy and salacious predilection on his breath, friction, grinding and unwavering in the stoic cloistering of his throat, ushered only the rapacious glimpse of his tone, molding into the veils of the boughs, the lavished decadence of the tangled intimacies, the heathen desperations.

An amulet winked in the light, bright, luminescent, hanging from the scabbard, the cutlass, the blade hastened to his brow; dangling in some immoral rapture beneath the idle waves of its intended purpose. For a few moments, it merely swayed amongst the vestal broodings of the cumbersome shadows, before he sighed, breathed, and poured the ruthless incantations of his invocations into its raw, untouched stone. Monstrous, venomous, vindictive strokes fed and fueled the bombardment of his art, of his opus, of his oeuvre, until they tangled amongst one another, covered and embellished enamel, rendering bane, virulent toxins into its strong, enduring jewel, resisting the demise of its presence, the death of its incarnation – and suddenly, he was nude before her, offering everything and nothing to the sylph. The potency of his body, the strength, the brawn of his persevering danger, and the endless, boundless, emptiness of his pyrrhic existence pierced, punctured and penetrated through the ceaseless supremacy, puissance, of his stare, completely consumed by her watery image. He concocted the weight of his demands in one short, wild, intense clip of his tongue, the roughened candor, the fiendish, hot whisper into the barbaric grove, the sumptuous, sinuous, sensual fold of his mouth, resolute for a few ferocious moments, “Let me have you,” and then the vulnerability of the command settled in, ending on a strangled plea.

Deimos lifted his cranium, permitted the talisman to ricochet from its string, and plummet to her feet. Power in her hands, resting in idle repose at the cloved fixtures of her sea laced hooves – bestowing her the rupturing moments of rejection or acceptance. He’d fallen to the grasp, to the whims, to the inclinations of a raingirl, and stood, watching, amidst the darkness, ready to be ruined by heavenly dismissal and refusal.
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
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Huyana Posts: 83
Aurora Basin Scholar
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE
Krazie
#3



Huyana; the single indelible word, unmistakable through the din of raindrops, hanging in the sunlit air between them like the sins of an entire population. Breath caught in her throat, trapped between her lungs, and she was frozen, a single ear flicking towards him. He who brought death to all he touched; he who could bring an empire to its knees; the single man who could possibly bring the proud and defiant Huyana to her own knees. She turned to him almost timidly, wet tendrils of mane falling across her face as she watched him from beneath wet lashes. The Reaper was even more beautiful than memory, every detail of his face chiseled with masterful skill—he was a Michelangelo, sculpted with indelible allure. Had he been watching her, a voyeur to her whims and infinite joy, as she had gamboled through her element, through the sunlight, through the late spring air? Intrigued, she contemplated him through the rain, ears swiveling backward as she noticed the sparkling gem by his brow, eyes widening a fraction as she studied its facets, its glistening face. She tilted her head, wet forelock falling across her eyes, uncomprehending at first. The general breathed—were her eyes unused to the light, or did the jewel seem to glow oddly? Uncomprehendingly, she took a daring step forward, lips held slack as she contemplated this gesture.

His eyes answered her question before she could even open her mouth—they watched her with uncanny ferocity—but it was not the ferocity of death, it did not herald violence; but rather a different sort of ferocity, tender and fierce, a look which told her so many things and absolutely nothing at all. The raindancer took a daring step forward, her stomach tightening; she was looking into the lion's mouth, flourishing her red cloth before the bull—was this what she wanted? To ravish, to be ravished? Yes, her eyes said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in a way that was not entirely innocent. She tilted her head downward, watching him and his gleaming stone through the lashes clumped with raindrops. Let me have you, he said, sounding more vulnerable and hungry and beautiful than she had ever heard anyone be. Huyana did not blink or flinch, did not cry out nor breathe; she just considered him and all his possibilities. He was Deimos the Reaper, whose touch could bring death, and in four words he became the most unguarded creature she had seen. She had the possibility to become cruel, to refuse this query, to leave him naked in this driving rain, to right all the wrongs his kind brought; but she found herself unable to, a warmth spreading in her chest even as she felt numb.

In a single gesture, the general relinquished the gem to her feet. She could not help the smile that spread across her lips, nor could she control herself as she reached down to take the treasure before her, letting it slide down her slippery horn. It was heavy—in this stone was all the walls Deimos had built, the entirety of his being—it was his persona, his birthright, and this creature of rain found herself bearing it like a cross; but it was not something that would damn her, and it was certainly not something she bore unwillingly. Wordlessly, the mare moved forward until their skins touched—he was as wet as she, defenseless and liable and as mortal as the rest of them. He was no untouchable idol, not a god of death. Today he would bring no destruction or break down city walls—he would not take or steal or violate. She ran her lips down his spine, continuing over the creases of his muscles, marveling over their strength. The tip of her tail stroked his broad chest lightly, with both gentleness and clout. "Reaper," she murmured into his skin, wondering if the word would sink into every pore of his. Huyana let her face rest on his hip, feeling his unguarded warmth. She thought to all the violence and hate and blood she had witnessed in all her days and decided she had enough of it: it was time to prove the world (and herself) wrong. If he was ready to relinquish control and lay himself bare before her, she would too, and gladly. If he took life and fought in wars, he could be gentle too. They wouldn't right all the wrongs of the world, but they could ease the pain of living, at least for a while.

Her lips parted, and she dragged her teeth across the point of his hip, tasting the sweetness of rain and the muskiness of his scent. Suddenly, everything seemed inconsequential and silly—all her worries and problems were so frivolous and nonsensical; she felt so giddy she almost laughed. Smiling, Huyana turned and let her lips dance across his ears. "Take me then," she growled playfully, before laughing quietly and ducking beneath the crook of his neck, tail trailing lightly under his belly.


Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#4
A lesser creature would have bent their crowns, stared upon the seams of the ground, to listen to their augured rejection, to their pending dismissal, but the Reaper was no coward. He remained resolute, fierce and incensed, staring into the showers of her grandeur, of her splendor, awaiting the fate of additional abandonment, driving perilous clarity into his innate enmity, rendering himself capable of hearing termination sown by angelic words. Left to another’s power, to another’s strength, unwound, unfurled, sliding and slipping into the wake of her writhing, ghostly calculations, immersed in the illustrious boughs of her seraphic, silken steps, of her chaste countenance, of the bewitching ribbons she’d wound around his throat. He’d willingly twined the dulcet essence across his neck, smothering, strangling, imbibing tremulous desires, tarnishing brooding longings, severing indifferences, entangling the sumptuous, slender reverie of a satanic pulse. He’d opened up the perils of inveigling, bestowed her calculations, her ruminations, her sentiments to the alluring, rapacious abhorrence, to the chilling, glacial indifference, allowed her to see past the walls, past the violence, past the arcane calamity and the Stygian mayhem. He’d bore his blighted, ignited soul into the mass of her divinity, pulled off the diabolical armor, the lethal, malignant detachment, the audacious meld and mold of his Mephistophelean finery. The acerbic caresses of the devil, the mordant embrace of his scythe, the scalding laceration cursing fragility into his bestial damnation, into Lucifer’s majestic creation, feasted on his overwhelmed, inane beckoning, demands and commands. Everything in his power, in his precision, in his prowess and pernicious existence was laid out before her, for her, granted, conceded, endowed. Only when she fixated upon his gift, on the glistening gem that offered so many more unsung promises, might, devotions and convictions, did he settle a rigid breath into the pouring rain, allow himself to become soaked, slithering in her corporeality. He almost laughed, smiled, in relief, consolation, and reassurance, for even amongst the haughty nonchalance, the acrimonious apathy, the stinging, beating nettle of callous terror, of taciturn credence, she still favored him. The nymph ignored his deplorable aims, his trenchant enticements, his muted, clawing havoc, his formidable malice, his bitter menace, and gave him the opportunity to be graced, wanted, needed, saved. A chance to remember what it was like to be cherished, beloved, and adored. Before her words conveyed any acceptance, her eyes rendered the message for him. Yes.

Deimos deserved nothing from her, not a wisp of her salvation, not a kiss of her forgiveness, not a single breath courted from her lungs. He was fury, ferocity and the cold, chilling depths of malignant aspirations, ruthless, ravenous augur of remorseless beings, and she was so much more than him, awakened by the mist, by the abyss, by the torn webs of all the seams he’d plucked, ruined and scarred. She stitched worn tapestries back together, she untied frail, besotted knots, she untangled the violence of all their sardonic, derisory insouciance, and would forever be better than his deadly enchantments, his horrible, decadent ruin, his gnarled, treacherous deliberations.

But she touched him, and the Reaper ignited. He forgot the etchings of nonchalance, the cruel fixation of reticence, the imperial dominion of recherché, and felt once more – the arching, the sliding, the beating of her beatific finery, the turbulent desires gripping, grasping, tearing and ripping against the heady doldrums within his mind. Was it madness, to be overwhelmed by such a saintly creature, to be devoured by her opulence, by her grandeur, by her splendor, to be willingly swallowed, consumed, by her drenched embrace? The feral, sultry whims besotted the framework of the beast’s heathenous, capricious faults, Satan indulged him in all the smoking, burning chords, in all the possessive, violent, devastating requiems, and still, he fell to this girl, clambered for her touch, for her acceptance, for her belief, faith and trust. Deimos shuddered, quivered, poured undulation into each vessel, muscle, flesh she caressed, entombed the memory of its virtue, captured the arch, the fervor, ardor, vehemence, committed it to images, to passion, to fervency, to portentous yearnings. Lips wove over his spine, dipped and glided across sinned skin, forgoing the burden of all his iniquities, of all his immoralities, tossing them aside with no inclination of her loathing for their conceited, savage, nefarious prose, for the actions they’d committed, for the wrongs they’d unleashed. She sank into his skin and built shelter, sanctuary, solace there, drank from his sedition, preyed from his insurrection, beat a steady crescendo across his withered heart, and he possessed all the motions, all the elegance, all the grace for himself. Willingly sieged by her serenity, contained and annihilated by her tranquility, sculpted and reborn in the outstretched arms of her composure. Touch and tension seethed and smoldered, burned and sweltered, fed all the ferocity, all the compassion, all the distorted intensity and rousing of his cravings, yearning frictions, and as his title sidled from her mouth, caught in the silvern webbing of his hide, he drank the delicacy of the herald, the hold she had over him. Turning into her body, shivering as her voice haunted his ears, coated his cranium, danced over his crown, he indulged, carved, sculpted and molded the lacquer, the designs, of his cretin cravings and devilish desires.

His mouth dragged over her shoulder, teeth drawn to sketch over sinew, the lithe, willowy, soft blue hue of the dawn, consumed, hankered, wanted and lusted to drive himself deeper into her veins, to encompass the savagery, the severity, the potency of his vehement intensity, to unravel and annihilate; but she, in so many ardent ways, would likely only allow it to scald her figure. Infused, the sultry clamor of his jaw spoke silent, carnal rhythms into her body, whispered into her skin, offered all the wishes, all the ambitions, desires and longing stirred within her, laced the muted adorations, the carnivore amore, of his bestial, behemoth convictions upon her chest, across her nape. Drunk on audacity, sultry, he slipped the hushed opus of his enflamed anarchy, the bedlam recoil, the immoral flesh of his rigorous control, along her ear, brushed, lightly, delicately, phantasmal, wraithlike, dangerous, ethereal intoxication across its shell, upon its rim. The heinous breath of his virile predilection seared and smoldered, ghostly kisses, demonic caresses, unholy, licentious songs burning across his tongue, tracing the outline of her reverence, of her beneficence, with the ardor of his salacious inclinations, his sumptuous satiation. It followed the course and canvas of her spine, haunted the dainty, intricate lines, the wispy, exquisite beauty, the strength and dominion, rue and restoration. Piercing eyes closed and lips committed the fine resolution of her skin to memory, devoured and drowned the sentiments of reminiscence, pursued each turn and twist of her dulcet hide, of her whimsical deliverance, of salvation painted in water. He swiveled over her hips, tugged at their silken boundaries, caressed thigh and outlined her hind with a wild, savage candor, left nothing of her flesh untouched, left nothing of her flesh not his own, puissant and pernicious, possessing the sharp shift of her motions and the passionate undulations of their allure, temptations and pinnacle; culmination and genesis of his rapacious endeavors, of her poignant blessings; a hollowed heart’s unwinding maelstrom caught in the rain.
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
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