the Rift


Cater to the Hollow [Graveyard Champ]

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
#1


Deimos was not in the Halloween spirit. Haunting eaves, daunting, shifting corridors, and meticulous hallways, where the vacancy of battle drugged and dragged him from listless, languid meandering, coiled amongst the nonchalant brow of the newfound Lord. A soldier (for that’s what he was first and foremost, with or without crown) lacking purpose, fueled by itchy, loathsome garments and an already turbulent, hostile disposition, was a treacherous, dangerous barb waiting to be unleashed. Like a scavenger, like a snake, taut and rigid, stiff and unyielding, hunting, yearning and devouring, he gleamed across the land and fixated upon the vast wilderness, hankering for bloodshed, for recoil, for damnation, mayhem and anarchy. As he prowled amongst the meadow, caped, crusading, roaming and persecuting the earth with decadent, hostile poison, the outline of the open landscape pinpointed on one sole creature. The newfound opposition stood out amongst the vivid, elongated plains, ivory, horned, perhaps even taller than he, maybe one of the beasts he’d called from the edges of the Foothills to battle for their past, wicked affair of failed annihilation. Instant familiarity did not prick against his brow, and this was likely for the better, for as the smoldering sanction of triumph, munitions and bombardments ignited against his mind, he’d be berated for the assault upon one of his own members. He drew closer, meticulous mind no longer pleased by his choice of garb (the Stygian fabric was much too hot in the Tallsun heat, but came with the elongated hood, the hidden fixtures of his features, and the immediate recollection of his title – he couldn’t be much grimmer), but attempting to maintain a firm grasp of her image.

He pursued in a steady, predacious stride along the right side of the open meadow, a dark, ravenous creature slinking and slithering across the horizon, focusing on where he could establish faults and flaws upon the femme, striving to ignore the bob of his leonine tail and the foam, silvern anomaly tied to it (a scythe, the raingirl had insisted, to complete the abomination of a costume). The mare’s body size held intriguing possibilities, and a situation his cold-blooded mind surmised as making an impact; she was much stockier than his lithe frame, drafty, brawny, broad and thickset. His speed would be an important factor against the pallid mass.

So where to brutalize first? Where to hone in, destroy, ravage, wreck and ruin?

The monster chose her right to terrorize and maim, eager to rupture tender flesh, and abominate necessary sinew. He chose a straight path, easier to grasp with the hood blocking his sight from the sides, picking up an abrupt pace, a swift, heinous gallop, across the fixture of field and grassland. As he gained ground, he lowered his head so the protruding glint of his nefarious blade, too lengthy to be hidden by the ebony cowl, was just as ready, just as avid, fervent, and keen on hoisting scars across her figure. Trying to close in, he attempted to drag the pointed, ruffian edges of his sword into her right flank, to tear, to rip, to shred hide, pelt, and likely some foreign garments she’d also assembled.


[527 words. 1/3 + 0/1 final defense post. @[Artemis]
Deimos strides towards the right side of Artemis and attempts to drag his sword along her flank.
Costume: Grim Reaper, adorned with black cloak covering his ears, but incapable of hiding his horn. Also has a silver scythe tied to his leonine tail. He doesn’t enjoy it.
WEATHER - It's a nice clear and mildly sunny birdsong day, 10am.
SETTING - A grassy field that goes fetlock high, forgiving and not too wet. Some flowers and trees are around, a creek cuts through in one area near two trees.]





Artemis Posts: 82
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 4 Buff: NOVICE
Sei
#2



CATER TO THE HOLLOW

Well I’ve got a thick skin and an elastic heart
But your blade it might be too sharp

The mare yawned. She was not a fan of these silly holidays. To the barbarian, they were meaningless. What purpose did it have to dress up in such ridiculous and impractical outfits? She glared at nothing in particular, though her vision seemed to avert its fiery gaze upon an innocent flower as she strode forwards. The blossom peered up in fear as a heavy hoof came down upon it and, before raising, gave a swift twist to ensure the plant was decimated underfoot.

Her costume was simple yet in its simplicity came complete foolishness. Around her broad waist was a loosely fitted pelt, though the material did not exactly feel genuine. The leopard print was vivid against her blank canvas and was secured by a round pin upon her left flank. Her tail was knotted into a ponytail for an inconceivable reason and in her plait was a mock bone. Another fake bone adorned her maw, attached by a plastic fitting that linked over her nose and gripped slightly on the underside giving her the appearance of some sort of crazed shaman. The final insult was the foam club that was secured by ugly ties around her front left leg. It was just sort of ... there, for no real purpose. It was light, yet she could feel the ties rubbing and it distracted her greatly. The feeling was not pleasant, and all of this was the fault of Tharos. Damn that fool. Could he not have given her a more majestic costume? A knight maybe, or a fucking fairy princess? Anything was better than the 'cave woman', whatever that was.

She turned to face her opponent, eager to take her irritation at her costume out on him. Her eyes settled upon a dark figure, his body cloaked in black with a horn slipping out through the hood, unable to be hidden beneath the fabric. It was an intimidating sight, but the mare stood tall and proud and simply arched her powerful neck at the sight of him. He was shorter than she, and his body lithe and powerful. She knew his speed would likely be his advantage over her, yet her bulk was strong and her body well endowed with muscles. If she could hit him, she hoped she could deal enough damage to slow the slimmer stallion.

It was not long before he started the match, galloping head on. She galloped also, directly toward the stallion as if it was a joust. With his cloak, she knew his vision would suffer, increasing his blind spot. She hoped her attack would pay off, and she knew that if she could somehow move fast enough to get out of his limited range of vision, she could possibly deal a blow and dodge without injury - that was the theory, anyway.

The stallion was swift and was soon upon her, and the mare shifted a pace to the left so that he would approach on her right side. As she neared, she realized his horn was much longer than her own and that if she attacked now, she was sure to be hit. There was no time to dodge the assault, however, so she decided she would take advantage of his attack by tilting her own skull toward his right flank as she passed by. As she passed, his horn caught her right flank and chiseled a deep gash into her side, slicing just behind her shoulder and causing the mare to grunt in agony, however she did not falter.

Artemis hoped her own horn had had the same effect upon the stag but she had no time to ponder the outcome as she dug her heels into the soft, dry grass and came to an abrupt halt. Blood bubbled to the surface of her wound, spilling over in a thin lightning bolt that seeped down her shoulder and into the foamy instrument by her side. As she stopped, she turned 180 degrees clockwise in the hopes that she might be facing him, charging yet again in the last direction she had seen the stallion with her head low and horn primed, hoping to strike his hind flanks. It was likely that if he was still in the same position, and she did manage to hit her target, that the horn would strike his right gluteal muscle, however she had no time to pay attention to detail.

This stag was strong. She had to be stronger.

"speak"

[744 words. 1/3. @[Deimos]
Artemis decided this is a joust and charged head on, mirroring Deimos' attack before turning 180 and trying to charge at his hind quarters in an attempt to slice his glutes.
Costume: Cave woman. Art is equally displeased. CLICK ME.
WEATHER - It's a nice clear and mildly sunny birdsong day, 10am.
SETTING - A grassy field that goes fetlock high, forgiving and not too wet. Some flowers and trees are around, a creek cuts through in one area near two trees.]

DevArt
[Image: 258b4tv.jpg]

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
#3


Vexation warped at his nettled, irritated spirit, casting a discordant, dissonant grasp upon his machinations and calculations, first the hood, with its damning limitations already clashing with its superior, shocking appearance, and then the burly mare’s jousting efforts. He had a few brief moments of riotous satisfaction, a smoldering gratification of minute triumphs, when his sword met flesh, split sinew, but it tumbled thereafter as she, dressed as some odd Neanderthal, followed suit in a series of mirrored moves. Without the full advantage of his vision, the Reaper could only presume her methods were to be the same as his own, striking towards the hind, and he attempted to swivel his haunches towards the left to avoid full devastation and injury. The point of her horn struck against his right hindquarters, scraping at pelt, hide and skin, and he nearly shouted, screamed, exploited the barbarity of his wrath, of his outrage, of being slashed, of the white hot pain searing against his sights. It was an arduous condemnation of his movements, and he already knew his motions would be labored, burdened by the onslaught of aching torment.

Something, or someone, had to pay.

The first thing to go would be the hood. He was given some fleeting seconds as the opponent shifted her position, allotting him precious time to disengage the cowl from his cranium. A massive, wild shake contorted through his nape, along his crown, until the fabric no longer remained caught around his ears or along the serrated edges of his rapier. It revealed his appearance, offered the nameless femme his features, his title, his Reaper status, but he no longer reveled in the deceptive phases, the seditious display of decadence. Instead, he sought to persecute, unravel, maim, slash and lacerate as she had done to him. How difficult would it be to ruin her, to watch her fall into the fields, forgotten and desecrated? Rise and fall in the grandeur, in the heat, in the decomposition and withering, festering frailty and fatality of battle – calloused, seething, rapacious and relentless, he shifted his puncturing sights to fully gaze at the dilemma laid out before him, as the brawny figure came barreling at him again.

She was going for the same portion of his hind, and perhaps, in a similar situation, he would have concocted an identical plan. What greater way to unravel prey’s lofty ambitions, than to obliterate the portion of motion already hindered? Unfortunately for the creature, she was also dabbling with a cretin, with a fiend, with nefarious armaments exploiting the regions of his cold-blooded mind, with wicked malevolence meandering over his satanic frame. As she neared, he moved forward, allowing the scrape of her horn to tangle with the end of the right side of his rump, lancing off more hide, more fur, but also bestowing him opportunity for the munitions of his own brutality and barbarity, aiming for a well-placed kick towards her face.

Though the right side of his hind couldn’t be lifted or raised as well as he would have liked (already stiffened and unyielding from the earlier bombardments), the Reaper sought to infuse it with the grasping, clutching fingertips of his vicious necromancy, his savage enchantments, gliding from his blackened veins, into the fortitude of his forceful actions, the malicious entanglement of his merciless mayhem. If it touched her, would she burn? If it caressed her features, would she decay? If it stroked her with the subtle persuasion of death, would it sink into her bones, press against her lungs, and beat an infernal tune against her restless heart?


[598 words. 2/3 + 0/1 defense.
Deimos is struck on the right hindquarters, her horn sliced into his hide, hindering the speed of his movements. Irritated, he shakes his head to remove the hood and allowing him to have full vision once more.

As Artemis comes for his right flank again, Deimos moves forward, thereby only getting hit on the edge of the right side of his rump. Hoping to use this position to his advantage, he attempts to kick towards her face (though he cannot raise his legs as high, due to obvious pain), lacing his deadly magic into his hooves for a more potent effect – should the hit connect.]





Artemis Posts: 82
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 4 Buff: NOVICE
Sei
#4



CATER TO THE HOLLOW

Well I’ve got a thick skin and an elastic heart
But your blade it might be too sharp

Her mad dash toward the buttocks of the Reaper yielded little profit, her horn slicing thinly into the margins of the muscle as he plummeted forwards in a successful attempt to minimize the damage done. Her disappointment was felt as a deep pang inside her gut, yet as her eyes raised she saw the bloodied gash that had been the result of her initial attack. The sight gave her some satisfaction as a smirk toyed at the corners of her lips. The cloak fluttered about his muscles as he moved, tarnished with coagulated blood where her horn had assaulted tender flesh.

The movement the cloak rippled upwards and for a moment, her elated mood regarding the brutal gash had distracted her. His muscles hidden, she had realized her mistake a moment too late as she pushed her heavy body up in an attempt to avoid the clash of hooves against flesh. His legs came up, beating her chest as her front legs only barely raised above the ground. She threw her head back as a wild snort billowed from flared nares, feeling the deep pang of pain resonate through her pectorals and wind her. Yet it was not simply the battering of his heavy feet that she felt. There was something more to his attack. Something that filled her heart with dread.

As his hooves left her chest she felt the breath seep from her lungs, as if the strength of her body was drained and unwilling to muster any form of movement. She groaned, the pain sharp, her own front legs becoming grounded from the pseudo-rear she had attempted. She knew there was no time to hesitate, yet his touch felt draining; the potency of her life seemed to ebb away by just a simple kick.

Gritted teeth and ears pressed flat against her skull, she attempted to dart her body as swiftly as she could manage around his side, moving alongside his left. She hoped he remained still long enough for her to bite down upon the hood that he had managed to remove from his face. Artemis tried to pull the fabric as she passed in order to mask his face once more, hoping she might force his head lower as she did so before turning right over her shoulder in a bid to face him. There, she endeavored to rear, her front legs flailing before her in the hopes that her plot to re-mask him had been successful so that her hooves might meet with his face. Her attempt was pained and she sucked in deep breaths, her body feeling weak yet she pushed herself, not willing to give up at the first hurdle.

Yet as her hooves lashed out, she felt a pang of dread that he might play the same trick if her attack connected. That fear lingered in the forefront of her mind. She had no idea who this black demon was, yet she wished this was her only meeting with the shadowed stranger.

"speak"

[501 words. 2/3. @[Deimos]

Artemis is kicked in the chest and feels the effects of Deimos' magic. he attempts to move past his left, her right, to grab his hood and pull it over his head hoping to force his head lower. Then she tries to face him, attempting a rear in order to attack his face.
DevArt
[Image: 258b4tv.jpg]

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
#5


The beast was disappointed when the mare refused to whimper, fall, flail upon the ground until she became a withered, atrophied carcass, perished in the transient, fleeting moments of peril and terror, of horror and abominations. The Reaper’s fulfillment only arrived with condemnation, with eradication, when violence sprung from satanic stanzas and silent strife, with animosity and acrimony pulsing from maddening deliberations and pulverizing machinations. His hedonistic satisfaction would have come with raw panic paralyzing her eyes, her features, her movements and motions, if she’d been chaotically thrust into a disabled, crippled, immobilized figure he could crush, suppress and triumph over. Instead, the mare arrived at his side once more, like an unbroken, brawny machine, and the cumbersome hood became a loathsome thorn in his costumed cavalcade as her dentals grabbed hold of the fabric.

His bulk sought to alleviate the entity of her grinding fixture pinning him to her side; despite his laboring right hind, he ground his weight towards the right, pulling against her arduous convictions, pushing the might, the power, the prowess of his own strength into each dragging stride across the wet, hostile field. The sound of cloth ripping, tearing, maiming, filled the void of noises and battle cries, and he continued in his pursuit of liberation, from cowl, from mantle, from seething, simmering opposition. Loosened by the entangled, dueling masses, the material gave way and burdened him with the momentary contentment of escape, from garment and beast, and as he swiveled his head back towards her position, he found the gratification fade away into nothingness. Her hooves flailed in a rear, and though she hadn’t blinded him, hadn’t scorched or impaired his vision, lowered him into a cowering mass, she’d snagged him while he was distracted.

Deimos cursed himself, clenched his jaw as the edge of her hooves clattered against the top of his skull, scraped against the surface of his nape, scratched and brutalized the left outer rim of his neck, sliding downwards in their wild escapade. The searing intensity of the contusion to his cranium rattled him for a few moments, enough to deliver some barbaric glimmer of dismay, of acting like a demonic, ignorant youngster, lost and forlorn in the archways of battle, instead of the warrior, the infidel, the cretin and fiend he’d grown to become. He’d sown his treachery into the lands, he’d embarked upon licentious creeds, he’d delved into crusades and come away with victories and blood upon his cutlass. He was better than this.

The humiliating sensation was overwrought and overwhelmed by his Machiavellian predilections searing, severing, the calamity of his bewitched wake. The mare had delivered him ample opportunity to entrench her glory into wretched, wicked ruin, and he hoped to bestow her the grandeur, the decadence, of his pernicious sieges, timely assaults. He shook his head, attempted to clear the cobwebs of the ringing, shooting barbs locked in his skull, and then pointed the long, sharp rim of his rapier towards her exposed chest. Motions, not as swift, not as quick, not as glorious before assaults upon his body, sought to pierce, to puncture, to lacerate the wide expanse of her torso, longed to gleam the prosperity of her faltering, to stumble and fall upon his savage sword.


[542 words. 3/3 + 0/1 defense.
As Artemis seeks to push the beast lower with the use of his hood, Deimos pulls against her, ripping the fabric of his cowl. Due to the distraction, Artemis hits the top of his head, forming a massive bruise, and scrapes her hooves down the left side of his nape.

He uses this opportunity to take advantage of her exposed chest, aiming to drive his horn into her torso.]





Artemis Posts: 82
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 4 Buff: NOVICE
Sei
#6



CATER TO THE HOLLOW

Well I’ve got a thick skin and an elastic heart
But your blade it might be too sharp

Gnashers clamped down upon thick fabric. The surprise of her success quickly registered upon her face, replaced immediately with a smirk and determined, narrowed eyes. Her chest felt weak, lungs not nearly inflating as well as they should and flared nostrils struggled to suck in deep breaths, yet she did not let that deter her. Clamping down, she pulled forwards as Deimos pulled away and for a moment two were connected in a writhing dance of taught muscles and shaking heads. Their tango was cut short when Artemis heard the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

As she raised her legs to rear, she found the torn cowl handing from clamped jaws like a trophy. Hooves collided with flesh as she struck down and she snorted, heavy breath forced from her chest as her hooves were grounded. In the flurry of movement and blood, she hesitated. Her eyes found his skull, battered by her onslaught and growing ever closer to her body. The dagger aimed at the target painted with invisible lines upon her chest. His movements did not seem as fluid as they had been at the start of this match, yet her own were sluggish also due to the panting and heaving of her sides and the shallow gash upon her side.

In an attempt to dodge, fabric still tight in jaw, she shifted to the left yet his weapon was too long for her to dodge effectively no matter how swiftly her bulk had moved. Her right shoulder felt skin tear under the pressure of his fine bayonet, skin and muscle carved finely by its slightly serrated teeth. Blood bubbled and burst over its ravaged dam, flooding in thin streams down her blank canvas and painting abstract figures to match the bloodied V upon her skull. Her grip on the fabric tightened as the pain burned at her side, causing her eyes to widen and ears to press flat upon her crown. She grunted, holding in the scream of pain that threatened to overflow. No. She would not show pain.

Mother would never have allowed that. Pain was weakness. Silence was strength. She would defeat this demon, or lose with honor.

Instead she stood fast as his sword unsheathed from her skin. Her head pushed forwards and teeth parted as she attempted to throw the black fabric toward his face in another endeavor to blind the reaper. Once thrown, she hoped it would serve its duty, at the very least distracting the powerful beast as she backed up a pace, lowering her lead simultaneously as she dug in her heels and thrust forwards, striking steady and true toward his front left shoulder in an attempt to plunge her blade into the depths of sinew and toned muscle. Her thrust was not as powerful nor as fast as she would have liked, as the pain from her shoulder slowed her considerably and it pained her to put weight upon it. The muscle twitched and convulsed with every movement, arguing against further war yet she ignored it, determined to hit her mark.

"speak"

[512 words. 3/3. @[Deimos]

Throws the torn hood toward Deimos' face then lunged the tip of her horn directly toward his left shoulder in an attempt to pierce.

OOC- Thanks for the enlightening fight! I know I have much to learn but I hope maybe we can spar one day so I can improve.
DevArt
[Image: 258b4tv.jpg]

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
#7


Frustration was forever an imminent portion of battle. He was rarely given the chance to completely maim his opponents, shatter and destroy their thrashing limbs, their undulating corpses, or their vacuous, inept sentiments. He was seldom bestowed moments to truly ravage their aspirations, their hopes and dreams, watching as the thickened course of his enchantments couldn’t fully deter their sanguine, noble, valorous hearts, that even the harshest, satanic whisper didn’t exploit them to their untimely demises. Another day, another hour, perhaps, but for this moment, this feud and clash, he was to be disappointed and vexed all the more. The femme didn’t stumble to her knees, beg for a mercy he’d never grant, and he seethed, smoldered, emboldened and enraged that his sword didn’t pierce a heart, didn’t cause a tragedy, a travesty, found incapable of building a new tomb. The Reaper, undaunted and relentless, simply found a new outlet to unwind his rapacious hunger upon.

She came at him, first with the torn piece of his hood, grim fashion shredded from scythe munitions, and he remembered the first bout of her distracting methods, held little regard to be twisted into its specious distortion again. As she flung it towards his face, he felt the Stygian cloth flicker across his brow, causing him to blink rapidly, shake his skull (inciting another infuriating ache down the length of his nape, scorching amongst his cranium), and witness the languid fall of its lithe conjectures, all shriveled, dissolute and forsaken. His eyes immediately searched for the ivory bulk, for the once pallid portions of skin and sinew now stained with ichor, wished he could devour more of its bleached hide. She’d backed up from her prior stance, and he intended to shift towards the right, with the mocking grandeur of pain shooting across his mauled haunches (not enough speed, never enough, it chortled and choked, smothered and strangled), to avoid the full damaging effect of her ire.

Deimos still felt the plunge, the tip, the sharpened edge of her malicious rapier bite into his flesh, slip across his skin in a hazardous, macabre dance, snap into sinew with an increased fervor. Torn flesh allowed the pledge of his own blood to spill forth over he length of his argent, left shoulder, cut, slashed, lacerated, but not as barbaric and brutal as it could have been, sliced and diced into ruin and devastation. The pain was savage in its own feral intoxication, and his jaw clenched in further discontent and aggravation, incapable of ensuing any more nefarious armaments upon her frame. Ensued from her bombardments was the sore, bruised skull and scratched nape, the maligned, cut left shoulder, the lanced right haunches, a reduction of speed, a forceful aching thread pushing at his senses – and what had he given her? Had it been enough, the touch of death, the silent screams of finality, the bewitching caress of iniquity and villainy? Or was this to be a dome of foolishness again, a score drawing him to humiliation?

[502 words. 3/3 posts + 1/1 defense.
Deimos is hit in the face with the cloth, but, having experienced her former schemes, doesn’t allow it to distract him. He shifts to the left to avoid the full brunt of Artemis’s attack, and is cut across the left shoulder, drawing blood.

Thanks for the fight, Sei!]





Official Posts: 847
Administrator
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
Official
#8
Deimos is the winner.
No VP is awarded.


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