the Rift


» viva la vida [open]

Somnus Posts: N/A
Unregistered
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#1
"You can not do this!" He bellowed, eyes glinting ferociously, waves of sand crashing at his feet. Some looked with sad, solemn faces and other's filled with greed and excitement. Back stabers. 'Somnus. We as a council have decided. I'm sorry, brother.' With no shame, tears flowed from his eyes. "You can not tear me from my own home! My land!" His heart throbbed in pain, looking around at the faces he had lived with since.. forever. "You can't do this." His voice cracked in pain, dropping to his knees. A futile sigh escaped the horse in front of him. Why couldn't he remember his name? 'Somnus, you are banished from the land of *Taco Horses. You are striped of your godly powers and will walk upon the mortals and be one yourself. You will remember nothing of your life. I am sorry, brother.' Shock and pain ran through his body, eyes turned down upon the ground as he felt his mind start to feel lighter. "How... how could you?. You are all cowards." He did not yell, voice strung with pain before ringing in the silence that followed. Piercing eyes stared into the one before him.

Blackness. Nothing. Banished and forgotten.

A weary traveler, wandering for days in an unknown direction for an unknown reason. Nothing but the scenery around him filled his mind. Have I seen that tree before? A sigh escapes ebony lips, ears lax and eyes trained forward. Muscles coil with every step, cloven hooves digging deep into the moist soil. A light sheen of sweat covers the bodice of a blank soul, body exhausted but driven forward.

The bubbling sound of a stream causes his throat to scream, instincts tugging him towards the liquid that cooled the flame in his throat. The water sloshed in his belly as he continued on, golden, sparkling sand weaving between his hooves and preoccupying his mind.

Days of walking. Days of solitude.

Finally, change. Nares quiver as the harsh scent of many others starts to seep in, intensity increasing with every step. Soon, he is surrounded by unfamiliar scents causing unease in the stallion. Brows scrunch as he turns his head to the side, what is this place? Is this the place he had been subconsciously looking for? With no precision or thought to the ruckus he was making- maybe it was purposeful- he continued through the ongoing forest, surrounded by green and lost in the sounds of creatures hidden and unknown. The sand continued to swirl around his feet, nearly gold and glittering - looking softer than the down of a goose - and made a light slithering noise that let his mind go blank.

Somnus
I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word.
[ * = an old conversation in skype, so props to you if you remember the land of The Taco Horses... couldn't think of an good name right now so just put that in there ]
coding used with permission from wanderer


Adrixaura Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#2


A d r i x a u r a
hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die,
then life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.
And what?! What was I expected to do day in and day out? Sit around on my ass and be lazy because everyone thought having foals was a good idea suddenly, that being a bunch of mindless whores makes you useful?
Well, that surely didn't get you anywhere.
I left to get away from them, fearful of the idea that if I hung out with them that long I'd surely end up pregnant again. Checking the threshold isn't much of a bad idea; the weather's nice, the air's a bit hot, but it's nice to be back here again. It's been one hell of a year, and each memory seems annoying in the process. There was always slaves to go out and find, and finding more minions wouldn't be that bad. There was always someone.
Inculding him.
My first idea of him was of annoyance. Most of the stallions I met made my stomach churn, flames bursting within my inferno, gasoline made of hatred sparking them. Sol had been met with the same way I was probably going to treat this odd, mis-matched stallion. He was handsome, if I could say, if not fucked up in a way that isn't even ever understood. Somehow, I liked the sight of him. I'm giving this a shot though I'm going to hate it. Tonka will have my hide if I don't bring something home, yet do I care? Is it nice to think that worthless idea of a leader has my loyality? No. My loyality is to Ignita, though she is dead. When she died, the Assassins as a whole took it; that's how I came to be here.
"Hello, Mr. Sandman? Have you come to bring me a dream today?" I smirk, pleasure slipping over me. This one is weird. I hate him already, a good thing if you're not sure. My pale eyes linger about his footsteps, the sand fanning from them nothing but bull shit. I just happened to pick the wrong one to try and recuit today. Seriously, I'm not even caring. It's just a worthless soul, a number in our ranks that the name of will never cross my mind for me to care over. It'll be my job to teach him to fight,
"Name's Adrixaura. Assassin General, part of a quickly growing outcast band, fighting for justice of those who can't receive it. Anything you need to know?" What I really want to say right now is 'Just come on home with me,' but let's not scare him away.
I might even enjoy this bastard here.

OOC: Late night post. Sorry It's bad. The next will be so much better.
image credits
table by whit

Circuta Posts: 100
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 7 Buff: NOVICE
Rhawon :: Siberian Tiger :: None aeolle
#3

The divines must have surely smiled down upon the seeker on this morning to find such a suitable delicacy.
But she doesn't know that, yet, not right now, at least. Right now the seeker is preoccupied with the ruckus
coming from the depths of the Threshold's forest. Was it a clumsy oaf, a naive creation, or a stupid beast
that is creating so much noise? Is it not clear to them that they need to shush themselves, or do they
travel like this all the time? Is the noise purposeful? If the noise of the mare giving birth to her child Apollo had gathered
the dangers that lurk in the shadows, then who was a fool enough to awaken the entire forest?

Charcoal and peach hooves bring her across the soft earth, darkened orbs scan
the lines of the trees for the idiot she assumes must be creating such
a disturbance. Is it just her, or does the air have a tinge of grit in it on this eve?
It reminds her of sand being blown on the beach, and yet, she is not next to the
ocean with the white general on this day. What is causing this needless pollution? Is it the
same creature that has caused the noise?
Harks twitch with the urge to lay down, into the tendrils of her mane. A slithering sound meets them,
and more of the grit is breathed into her nostrils. A grimace touches her maw, a cough working it's way up into her
throat.
And then she sees him.

He is shrouded in golden, shimmering sands, as downy feathers of a young avian. It startles her, momentarily, her orbs
taking in every detail of the sand god before her. A dusting of gold speckles his ship, set upon a ebony ocean. Silvery blue tides
seem almost mildly confused, cropped blue grasses and golden robe. Upon his dome is a interwoven beauty, complimenting
the rest of his divine framework with lovely decoration. She must admit, the brute is handsome, and well, he does have a weapon
that strikes from his brow. She moves the guilty image of the white general from her mind as she steps a little closer
to the mirage, sparkling indigo orbs gazing into the silvery blue depths.
The shade's neck moves in a graceful arch, allowing a light dip of her crown in greeting. She poses herself with elegance,
long lashes fluttering as she scrapes her orbs once more over the wonder. Would charm work on this beast? She works her frame with practiced
precision to tempt the brute to focus his attention unto her wholly.
Before she can make a attempt at speech with him, she notes a much less interesting frame of a femme. They flash over her hide with disinterest mingling in their depths, then switch softly but firmly back to the beast.
"Greetings, sand weaver,"
lyrics wisp and spin webs into the clear air as she speaks - "are you lost in this labyrinth? i may bestow upon you what i know, if you indeed seek such understanding."


CREDITS


VENOMXBABY : MIDNIGHTSTOUCHSTOCK



Frost Fyre Posts: 198
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3hh :: 6 Years HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Altair :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast prissy
#4

She hums a gentle tune, a lullaby she had heard in the past somewhere. The gentle rhythm lulling her mind, soothing her thoughts. She walked gracefully, grey knives leaving no trace on the beaten path. Her tall pillars moved with a gentle yet swift gait, sweeping dirt and debris into the air as she moved. She let her tail fall behind her, the hair on her tail waving in the air as she moved. Her glimmering banner streamed behind her as she kicked herself into a faster pace, weaving her way through the undergrowth.

A shimmering bodice slid through the trees, and she perked her audits, suddenly alert. She slid further into the weave of trees, emerald eyes tracking a golden body. She saw two others already on the prowl, the two of them probably wishing to capture this soul for their own purposes. She would not have it, no, she would ensnare the crowned for her herd, and let those filthy mutts starve. She approached him, a smile drawn across her soft features, her emeralds glimmering. His hind end was covered in golden dust that spread to below his knees. His eyes were surrounded by the same flakes of golden powder, pits of a foamy ocean blue surrounded by an island of sand. His mane was that same ocean blue, but an added green to it. A teal weaving of cropped hair is piled on his neck, the hair far too short to touch the dark flesh. His tail hung at his ankles, a mass of golden threads with ivory string intertwined. The maiden offered a bow, glancing up at him. She had nearly missed the greatest and most important detail! A branch like horn of teal was woven around a horn or glimmering gold, the crown placed perfectly on his dark brow. She opens her dark lips, offering her melodic voice into the lyrical harmony already created by the two mares. "Brother, I'd like to tell you there is a land North of here that will welcome you with open arms. Do not listen to those woman, for they cannot provide such a home as the Basin, the land of the Crowned. Ask me questions if you wish brother, and I shall fill your mind with the answers." She sank back, looking the flaked man up and down, pausing at his golden hooves. They were split down the middle just as hers, another feature of the Crowned.

The maiden was not against the other species, the First and the Feathered. She treated all the species equally, but tried to hide it. Deep down she had an odd respect for the First species, but only because she had been tormented by two First psychos she had ran into in the Marsh. The Feathered she respected because they were the ones who could fly, who could truly be free. She herself was grounded, gifted not with a pair of wings, but with a horn on her brow. She did not mind it, but some nights she dreamed of flight and soaring high above the Earth. Pulling herself from her mind's abyss, she averted her emerald eyes back to the Crowned stallion.

"Speech."

FROST FYRE
Second chances they don't ever matter, people never change.

image credits
Dawn is coming
open your eyes

Oxy the Addict Posts: 322
Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 7.5 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2hh :: 9 [Tallsun] HP: 73.5 | Buff: DANCE
Unnamed :: Common Boggart :: Mayhem Sevin
#5
You follow her. Circuta. Why? Because she deserves it. You've been following her for some time now, far behind her, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. It's a little difficult for you. Seeing as you're rather large, you stand out. Not to mention you have this terrible habit of falling all over yourself every chance you get. But not today. Today you manage to walk almost normally. How? You've resisted the call. Your muscles itch and your tongue grates against your teeth, but you deny them the sweet luxury they beg for. Your mouth yearns to reach into your shoulder bag and pull out one of the vines you have stored there but you won't have it. Not today. Because of her.

You don't know her name, but you know who she is. She's the stupid wench that pretty boy brought home. She speaks a few dainty words, calls those dumb wenches queens (or whatever it is she said) and suddenly she's the pretty, pretty princess of the group. And you? You stick up for yourself like any self-respecting stallion would and you're condemned to the outhouse like a dog with fleas. So you follow her because somehow she's perfect and you hate perfection; of course, it doesn't hurt that pretty boy seemed awful fond of her. And you hate pretty boy. You don't even have a plan yet, but that's not important. Your mind is clear, if somewhat overwhelmed by all the emotions you usually drown with your drugs, and you're going to make the pretty princess pay. You think.

Plans change. You suddenly realize you're back in the forest where lace-face gathered you up from. The pretty princess seems to have give her attention to something. You start to listen, then you hear it too. Noise- a strange rustling, almost grinding, sound. Somebody's coming. You almost grumble your disapproval, but remember that she doesn't know you're here. At least, you think she doesn't. Maybe she's playing a game with you too. Who knows.

Name's Adrixaura, Assassin General, you barely hear over the odd noise as you take longer steps to bring yourself nearer to the pretty princess. Then she speaks, the stupid wench with the golden tongue. Her words fall out of her mouth, soaking in sick, sugary syrup. It makes you cringe just to hear it, though you manage to hide your disgust as you come up alongside of her. Somehow. Just before you arrive, some other baby wench is there too. What is it with groups letting their young come to this place like they belong? You let her prattle on uselessly while giving her a look of pure annoyance. Finally, it seems to be your turn, though you're a man of few words. You manage to find some. “General of our group,” you lie with ease, referring to yourself while barely motioning towards the pretty princess. Hopefully he'll understand that you meant yourself. You didn't really give a lot of context. As far as the lie... There's no tell on your face because you almost believe yourself general. After all, who is? Nobody that you know of. May as well be you. And besides, no need for the Asylum to look weak just because pretty princess here wants to try and candy-coat her way through this meeting. Besides, if you bring someone home, you may yet further your cause. Sparing only a quick, side-long glace to freckle-face, you look back to the sand-weaver with impatient eyes, your black horns glinting in the sunlight.
we all look for ways to make the pain go away
- bg - table - manip -

Somnus Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#6
They descend upon him, like a lion on a gazelle.

Somnus kept walking, body weaving through the trees as the sand crashed underneath. Eyes of ice stare at the freckled mare who comes first, voice of sarcasm tied off with a smirk. 'Hello, Mr. Sandman? Have you come to bring me a dream today?' His brow furrows slightly, and something about that makes his stomach churn. "You are angered. Do you need a dream?" He inquires quietly, flicking his tail, listening as she continues, 'Name's Adrixaura. Assassin General, part of a quickly growing outcast band, fighting for justice of those who can't receive it. Anything you need to know?' Another crowned one comes forward, speaking in a musical tongue, 'Greetings, sand weaver.' She bows, and he nods to her, confusion filling his mind, but his forelock falling in front of his face covers it. She too asks if there is anything he could know.

Somnus lets silence fall over them, mind turning over their words. "Where am I?" Who am I? He wants to continue, but stops himself. What would they think of him, if they knew he did not know his name, his past, or anything about himself? His voice shocks him, hearing it for the first time.

Two others come. A young filly, batting her eyelashes and most certainly trying to catch the attention of him. Fillies. He laughs in his head. He smiles to her, but is interrupted by a third unicorn, another general. Molding the sand at his chest, he controls in into intricate shapes and designs subconsciously, a light breath escaping his maw as he waits for their answer.

"Why did you find me?" I am nothing special... Weight shifts between his pillars, eyes shifting between the four evenly, settling on the filly's for a second longer in what could be called a trick.. of flirtation. Ears turned forward, digging cloven toes into Gaia's back before glancing up at the sky and blessing the cover of trees that was helping keep it cool to those confined to the ground.

Somnus
I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word.
[ lol this sucked my muse is still gone sorry & still need to get into him ]
coding used with permission from wanderer


Circuta Posts: 100
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 7 Buff: NOVICE
Rhawon :: Siberian Tiger :: None aeolle
#7

The sand weaver asks where he is, and before she can respond..
A maiden of charcoal and coal, earth and damp, scattered snow brushed upon her as the strokes upon a artist's canvas. She was a pretty little thing, with leonine tail and a well-shaped frame, and yet the dryad sang lyrics of the land of the crowned, sang lyrics to oppose her own offering of a bestowed land and welcoming grips of the dead. The dark maw spoke of it's own gift, and the beating muscle inside her chest beat a tune of frustration and swelling anger, of a primal urge to defeat those who dare attempt to snatch the sand weaver from her grasps. The sand weaver was hers, her prey, she had found him before this woman, she had gripped the right to take him within starving fangs and turn him loose after the hunt of the fox. She could see it now, the laughter ringing through the trees and the howls of the canine she had created as it locked drooling maw around the fox's delicate frame, ripped, tore, demolished before her very visuals. She would appraise him then with a treat, watch with pure, unrifled pleasure as her apprentice grew into the wolf that is both beautiful, and strong.

She is interrupted once more, a frame of rusted metal and white froth, of green tinted maw and crazed pearls. A rough voice, she recognizes this one, recognizes him as the plaguebearer she has named. One of her people, her flock, she blesses him with a slightly more gentle gaze. He has been judged with harsh intent, and despite her own first impressions of him, she will treat him as one of the flock as well. Are they not all cursed? Are they not all damned with the insane musings of the mad? The cries of the wolves are night, searching for injured elk? A demon haunts each of them, and so she greets him with a expression of welcome. She hopes the plaguebearer recognizes the action as one of peace, she is aware they have not met on the most friendly of terms, a apology, perhaps? It is clouded, the briefest exchange between the two of them, the merest of moments. And then it is washed away, as the sea to the sands beneath, washing the sins of the rock and earth away into the tide of it's expanse.
He speaks though, now, as her gaze turns back to the sand weaver, the recruit, he speaks of the position of general, and she allows a flick of one of her harks in his direction. Her tone displays nothing, nor does her expression anymore, and yet she is not rude when she sings. She merely sings, as the waves crash in the midst of a storm, she follows the direction of the crackles of lightning and the sound of a slashing whip afterwards. She is much like the storms, the winds, she is born of it's body and given it's strength, she is it's follower, it's child. She is like the sea. The temptress brings forth those with the songs of a siren, drags them down into the depths, she watches them struggle to breathe and cry and attempt to force themselves to the surface.
She caresses them with the force of the undertow as they begin to listen, they hear her, they hear her, and the song, the gentle touch of a kiss beckons them to eternal sleep.
A dying flame. "A fine warrior you are, plaguebearer, your strength is great. Yet still, my cranium tells me that yet others hold such a place among our flock."
The tug of her whispers are directed towards him, yet her divine attention is placed upon the sand weaver, with the swirl of a tornado twisting amidst her violet pearls. There is no sense in lying in front of the - what must be - banished Lord, for it will be found out soon enough, and he will race away as a startled pup once he enters the land of the dead.

The sand weaver creates shapes and form from the ground beneath him, flow as the rivers that cut across the landscape as wounds that flow with life-giving ichor across the silent face of Gaea.
Lyrics spread once more, attempt to wrap webs around the weaver and drag him beneath the surface, soft, the thumps of rain against a glass canvas.
"You have come to the Threshold of the land of Helovia, crafted by the divines above. All those who wander upon this place are met here, in this terrain."
A soft hum of breath escapes her nostrils as she pauses, her neck cranes carefully with the structure of a wave across the top of a boiling ocean.
"I will not lie to you. We all come forth with the options of a home, sand weaver, a recruit to our own families. To grow our ranks, swell them with new blood. If I may assist you in any other way.."
A sultry dip of her lashes now, a seductive dip of tone - "I am Circuta, I am given the crown of seeker in the realm of the phantoms. And what title bestows you, my dear sand weaver?"


CREDITS
VENOMXBABY :: MIDNIGHTSTOUCHSTOCK
@[Oxy] @[Frost Fyre]

Cause she's a Cruel Mistress
And a bargain must be made

Oxy the Addict Posts: 322
Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 7.5 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2hh :: 9 [Tallsun] HP: 73.5 | Buff: DANCE
Unnamed :: Common Boggart :: Mayhem Sevin
#8
You watch the pretty princess look at you with something akin to kindness and you can't help but want to thrash her even more. Maybe you were never meant for the herd life. You don't seen to find getting along with others an easy task. Maybe it's just the drugs, you're still rather high. Whatever it is, you don't take her sugar coated gift and tear it open with greedy hands. You don't need the approval of others to justify your existence. She doesn't like you. You have even more how much she wants to play her feminine wiles, try to coo and coax her way into everyone's heart. Had you the presence of mind, you might have sneered at her. Instead, your lips remain even. It wouldn't do to play poorly at the game you're trying.

Looking back to the sand weaver, you listen to him speak. Why did you find me, he asks. You raise a metaphorical eyebrow and wonder if he's handicapped. It would be better for you all if he were. And for a moment, you allow yourself to get lost in the way the sands play into one other, twist and turn and crash and pile up and then fall down again. Even if he is not crazy, he may yet make a good medic. He soothes your savage beast... until the pretty princess speaks again. a fine warrior you are, plaguebearer, she begins and you cock your head at the name she's given you. At least you have something in common. But then she carries on and throws your whole cover. What a dumb wench, you think to yourself and roll your eyes in dissatisfaction.

But then she speaks to the sand weaver and so the time is not now to bash her brains in. Another time. It will come. You hate her, you're sure of that. Seeker in the realm of the phantoms, she calls herself and you almost gag over the sickening sweetness of her words. This is the worst kind of politics- the kind were the females flaunt their sent and silky voices and twist the ears of men until the stallions have no choice but to follow. You refuse to be taken in by her, refuse to play her game. “Not that we could've missed you with your... affliction,” you add to the end, your voice gruff but trying to contain the fury that threatens to well up underneath. You have nothing against his sand weaving, but you won't pretend that it makes him stealthy.

Otherwise, you have little to add. The pretty princess... no, the phantom seeker, has betrayed any thought of a plan that you had and so you're left trying to work through your brain to find a new one. Unconsciously, you work against yourself. Your large head swings around and inserts itself into your shoulder back, withdrawing one of the few remaining vines and chewing on it contemplatively while the phantom seeker continues to bake her cake in the mind of the sand weaver. Obviously you couldn't stand the waiting anymore, the driving need for the plants in your life. At least it'll help your temper a little bit. Maybe.
we all look for ways to make the pain go away
- bg - table - manip -
Permission granted to use magic or physical force with Oxy at any time for any reason to any degree, with the exception of killing him.

Please do not tag Oxy unless it is in an opening post

Frost Fyre Posts: 198
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3hh :: 6 Years HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Altair :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast prissy
#9

The maiden watched others enter, but took no attention to them, for her eyes lay on the prey. She could not fault, she could not fail, not now. Not ever. Struggling, the fae puts her focus into the sanded creature, into the divinely gold man who stood before her. Her emeralds drift, and she finds herself scanning over the big hunk of a stallion who just came marching in. Grunting to herself, the fae adjusts herself, fixing upon the teal maned beauty. He questions where he is, and the fae looks at the mare dark as night, her lips left open as though in mid word. "Helovia is indeed the land you stand upon." The fae says, responding to the mare's statements. She sinks back, but her heart is startled when wind takes hold of the mare and stallion's scents, bringing them forth.

Marsh.

Their stench is of rotting bodies, wasted souls, dark hearts and twisted grins. The image of the fair maiden in red hair and cruel crowned mare flash into the innocent one's mind. The pale ivory whites drown out the emeralds, and the fae drops her jaw. "You hail from the same group as the red haired maiden?" The fae inquires, narrowing her brow to a point, many would expect her brows to merge. She turns to the sand sculptor, and opens her lips again, her brows relaxed. "I hail from the Basin, land of Crowned kings and queens. I am a scholar of the icy valley, Frost Fyre is my name." The fae glances uneasily at the black and white mare and her large companion, ears laying back. She felt her stomach quiver at the memories of the mare with the bloody locks, the one who had white freckles and a piercing gaze. "You hail from the Marsh do you not? The land of ghouls and ghosts, rotting bodies and dark hearts?" The fae asks the black mare, Circuta yet another question, wishing to know more of this matter.

"Speech."
[sorry its so late D:]

FROST FYRE
Second chances they don't ever matter, people never change.

image credits
Dawn is coming
open your eyes

Somnus Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#10
The heat from the sun is deflated in the cover of the trees, but standing here and letting the heat sink in wasn't fun. Somnus flicks his tail, horned head held high as he watches the three before him. 'You have come to the threshold of the land of helovia, crafted by the divines above. All those who wander upon this place are met here, in this terrain.' The black and white mare answered first, voice sickly sweet like sap from a tree. At the word 'divine', a pit formed in his stomach and churned, but quickly disappeared as soon as it appeared. Her voice is a low purr as she continues, 'I will not lie to you. We all come forth with the options of a home, sand weaver, a recruit to our own families. To grow our ranks, swell them with new blood. if i may assist you in any other way.. I am Circuta, I am given the crown of seeker in the realm of the phantoms. And what title bestows you, my dear sand weaver?' Her lashes flick down and he follows the pattern of lines it splays across her cheek. His eyes roam her body for the slightest of a second, sleek and slender, sugar and spice and everything nice. A shiver runs down his spine. Oh shit. The large beast speaks before the silence of the unanswered question grows awkward. 'Not that we could've missed you with your... affliction,' Somnus's brow scrunches, before tilting his head down to look at the gold glittering sand. "Oh!" He exclaims, and with a poof the sand disappears. A small smile crosses his lips, he hadn't even noticed. Then the youngest one speaks, 'Helovia is indeed the land you stand upon.' Huh. Helovia. 'I hail from the Basin, land of Crowned kings and queens. I am a scholar of the icy valley, Frost Fyre is my name'. I dip my head to her.

"So. You said you have all come to offer your home to me. Explain your homes to me. What ranks would I be able to fill?" I ask smoothly, loud voice echoing through the trees. "I can not simply choose a place to live without knowing anything about it. And there out to be other herds. Please enlighten me." Somnus adds, a tone of authority filling his voice as his eyes lighten, glancing between the three.

Somnus
I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word.
[ wow this was really bad i don't know why my muse is still gone but i want to get him moving so forced a reply ]
coding used with permission from wanderer


Circuta Posts: 100
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 7 Buff: NOVICE
Rhawon :: Siberian Tiger :: None aeolle
#11
A glance, a glimpse, a rake of cerulean across her bodice as the wisps of lyrics fade along her tongue, hunger and curiosity mix with primal desires and dancing flames that erupt as greek fire within the contours of the bloodied, red, beating muscle inside her center. She only recognizes the disgusted, exasperated expression of distaste in the Plaguebearer's dark orbs, obsidian depths that gleam and shine with revulsion of her tactics, yet her instincts bless her with assurance and more webs to weave, and the black widow weaves them well, wraps the Sand Weavers frame in them, pulls on the threads with precise work and immaculate taste and like the kiss of death she tempts, is temptation in liquid form, solidified into one individual framework, her bodice, she was the temptress, and she would not be outdone by the fretful flirtations of a childe. Not of the Basin, not of the Foothills, not of the Throat nor the Edge, she was superior in right and grace and she would come forth victorious against the face of disaster, letdown, catastrophe.
If the Seeker of the Asylum notices the slightest of pauses, in which the Weaver of the Sands speaks not his name and heritage she does not speak it - she does, by the way, she's not dumbstruck like the little crowned childe.

She remains, still, statuesque, refined, the rhythmic breathing of her lungs as they take in oxygen, one, two, three, one, two, three, her sides expand and slow down as she inhales and exhales, the laps of the waves against the skin of the sands. The Plaguebearer breathes his own into the air, and she is eternally grateful his words are not too harsh, as the deep rumble slides along the air as the thunderclaps in the desert.
A exclamation of realization escapes the Weaver of the Sands and she feels a little saddened as the loss of the gentle thrum of the sands movements is gone from her, taken from her as if it had never been, and it is then that she allows her eyelids to brush upwards, imploring, beseeching the Weaver to return the gift of the melodic song back, to return it, for the Temptress, at least, for her. She speaks naught.
The girl is next to proclaim her arts forwards. A meek echo, the hawk's orbs allow a glimpse upon her, watch as realization of her homeland sinks into the marrow of her bones, bemusement slides through her veins as icy flames, ivories exposed to catch flies and whites of emeralds gleaming for the world to see. She speaks the title of the red haired maiden, her Queen, and a protective, obsessive urge churns her soul into rigid formation, does she mean to insult her Queen?
As the girl speaks once more, attentions given to the Weaver, she builds up her home with immaculate words and fine images, and when emerald meets indigo once more, they clash, with a warning edged deep within the depths of her violet pearls. Dare you insult my family, childe?
A answer is given in response to the girl, a lesson, a teaching, if you are to speak ill of another's loves then you are to expect ill lyrics to be returned, coated in sugar and sweetness, danger hums as an engine's voice beneath her every murmur. "And you hail from the Basin of Aurora's, a land of harsh ice and snow. The same Basin that attacked the Throat and Edge in desire, though you seem to have a exquisite home to deem your own, no?"
Are your family so greed-filled and vain, they press for more, when the divines have granted them a land of their own? The pools glint, speak no more, and I shall speak no more. A despise is given to respond with veiled insults to the crowned from the Seeker. It is not to be aided, for the childe does not shut up, does not seem to learn. Her General, her's, had fought in that war.

The Seeker returns her attentions to the Weaver of the Sands, lathers her devotions to him, enraptured once more.
He speaks, lyrics float through the deep forest and come to rest as feathers across her apparel, harks relaxed, tail swishing with the slightest of breezes.
Balletic, cat-like, the Seeker moves forward with smooth movements and once more lowered lashes, and when her frame draws close to his ship she loops round the Weaver with elegant pause near his left, her maw near his harks, scalding breath and soft murmurs as delicate as the petals of flowers. Hyacinth wafts from her apparel, a sweet, sharp incense, she takes meticulous care of herself - but she does not touch him, she leaves the choice up to the Weaver.
"The sands which you weave are tranquil, serene. They form shapes unlike that of many, unique, and blessed, you are. Yet, your speech is of elegance, composed, diplomatic.."
The tones of her lyrics drip once more into sultry whispers - "A psychologist, a artisan, and yet you would serve well alongside me, as a visionary, Weaver. The choice would be yours to make.."

A faint brush, then, the smallest of touches as she moves back to face him, her tones return to normality - a carnal flame catches within her indigo expressions.
"My people are brother's, sister's, led by the Jester Queen, Seele - and the Vermilion Queen, Eris. Allies of the Dragon's Throat in the southern peninsula, and the World's Edge in the northeast. We offer serenity, we care for those who may not be accepted anywhere else, and breathe new life into their veins. We offer stability, knowledge, tasks and quests, we offer to teach those in need. A place to rest your dome, food, those who shall care for you as you care for them, and above all, the protection of our entire armed forces. If you were in need of aid, we would assist, with the might of our Queen's and allies at our back."
A gentle hum escapes her throat, as she allows him pause to digest the offer she has placed on the table.

"You are correct, of course, Weaver, we are not the only Kingdom's that reside in the land. The Dragon's Throat, as mentioned, is to the southern peninsula. They are our allies, yet the lands they live in are scalding to the touch. The World's Edge, to the northwest, is a land of mist's and drakes, Mirage the DragonHeart is the Queen of the Landscape, whom I have met in the mists myself. They are our allies, as well. The Windtossed Foothills, to the northeast, a realm of Earth. The Daughter of the Basin has explained her land to you." Violet's soften as she relaxes her stance further - "Outcast bands are frequent as well."

She's at ease. She waits.
She's done her poison. It's time to see if it works.


Circuta</style>
who's the killer in the crowd -</style>
Credits
AHMEDBAKIR : VENOMXBABY : GALAXIESANDDUST : SALSOLASTOCK</style>

Cause she's a Cruel Mistress
And a bargain must be made

Oxy the Addict Posts: 322
Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 7.5 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2hh :: 9 [Tallsun] HP: 73.5 | Buff: DANCE
Unnamed :: Common Boggart :: Mayhem Sevin
#12
You watch the sands fall, even as you just speak. He stops them, lets them crash to the ground, and you rumble softly in your disappointment. They were soothing to you. The odd grinding, the soft slithering they created in the air brought calmness to the savage best. But they are gone now and you are left wishing for their return, just like the phantom seeker. If you knew that you and the syrupy sweet mare was thinking the same thing as you.... oh, how disappointed in yourself you would be. And then the little one is speaking again and you are drawn from your thoughts anyways. Turning to her, oh so slowly, you listen. The red-haired maiden. She must mean the glass horn's lesbian lover. You snort but decide to remain quiet for now. You've nothing kind to say to the little bitch as she carries on about the terrible nature of your home and you're certain the phantom seeker can handle this matter better. In fact, she does.

Unsurprisingly, she's far more diplomatic than you are and she begins to lay the little girl to waste. The foal is mocked and then mocked again. This is why children should not be sent to do the work of adults. Recruiting is not for the young. The young should be locked up, should be trained, should be silent unless spoken to. And, despite yourself, you find that you may just like the phantom seeker after all. But its hard to know if its you or the drugs. They swirl in your mind, beginning to take hold, sweeping their long reach around your brain and hugging tightly. They're smothering you, taking you away from this place. Are they making you like the phantom seeker as well? Has her disgusting way of leeching into everything finally taken hold of you too? You're disgusted with yourself. Especially after your original intention.

Luckily, the sand weaver speaks again, breaking you from your thoughts. He is straight and to the point. He is, unlike most others, a man you can get along with, if he leaves you be about your habit. As the drugs drag you farther out of reality you are forced to widen your stance in an attempt to remain upright. Next, your head lowers slightly but otherwise you remain rather normal. No drool yet, no falling over, no wild over-reactions. If you can just keep your shit together for a moment longer you and the phantom seeker will have won this battle.

Watching the seeker move forward, you cannot help but marvel at how well she plays her game. If it is a disgusting habit, at least she does it well. Even you ache to move towards her as she teases the sand weaver, begs him to touch her but does not reach out to him. Thankfully you have the slightest frame of mind to remain where you are standing. She speaks in drops of molasses and even you are caught in her tale of the lands. It is information you did not know, did not especially care to know. War is your task, not information. But if you are good at your job, then she is good at hers. She wins you then, completely, and though you will not chase her like a puppy (for you are not pretty boy), you shall not deign to maul her in the darkness either.

Oaf though you are, you have little to add. Your voice would only due to break the spell and so you simply shift, watching first the weaver, then the seeker and then the child. To the last, you shoot daggers from your eyes. You dare her to break the web that the seeker has woven. You dare her to deny that the sand weaver belongs among the lunatics of your home. You dare her to move against you when you are so much larger than her. And then you snort, ear flicked towards the weaver, awaiting his response. But somewhere in your heart you already know it. You and the phantom seeker have won.
we all look for ways to make the pain go away
- bg - table - manip -
Permission granted to use magic or physical force with Oxy at any time for any reason to any degree, with the exception of killing him.

Please do not tag Oxy unless it is in an opening post

Frost Fyre Posts: 198
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3hh :: 6 Years HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Altair :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast prissy
#13

"I do hail from the Basin. And yes, our desires of power are strong, but at least we do not threaten lives with acid bites and blood dyed hair." Her last sentence is spat, her ears laid back. She would never forgive the two mares who threatened her, who scared her into becoming a tattler of tales. The fae was left with her ears pressed back, the black mare beginning her own flirtatious little dance with the Weaver, answering his questions in a stupid, lyrical voice that was sure to soften a man's heart. A dead man's heart, that is.

The mistress of shadow weaves her words, answering the Sandman's questions. The maiden herself is mesmerized by the sand he weaves, his gift something the fae finds enjoyable, a time passer. Flicking her ears at the mare, the fae opens her soft lips, a half smile pressed to her face. "Can you really be so foolish? She is weaving a trap of her own, wishing to snare you in her devilish shadow claws. Don't drop your guard boy or you'll find yourself somewhere you wish not to be. Don't lose yourself in a herd of madmen and circus freaks. Why not live high and mighty with the kings and queens? Led by the Reaper and the Lady GildedBlade, you'll find yourself able to become a weaver for the divines, a phantom who creeps in night, a scholar who is to know all, or a soldier, able to defend the frozen valley." The fae simply leaves her lyrics to drift, glaring at the black mare with a hate so strong. She drags her emeralds to the tall stallion with green stained lips, another of the massive madmen. This gold and teal stud must know not to chase after the freaks, or else he will surely be doomed. "And unlike the other lands, the Basin was given to the Crowned by the God of Time and Shock, a gift for our glory."

A sickening venom overwhelms her words, and she is nearly spitting threats at the black woman and her pet. "You are far too gifted to live with such scum as this. And they are led by a bloody, lying bitch." She spits, ears plastered to her neck. She would never again let a group so foul stink up the air she breathes. Never will she let their poison into her veins. Crossing strings over hearts, the fae sinks back, tongue ready to strike more venomous verses.

"Speech."
[angry frost is angry :I]

FROST FYRE
Second chances they don't ever matter, people never change.

image credits
Dawn is coming
open your eyes

Eris_ Posts: 97
Deceased
Mare :: Equine :: 15.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE
Frostie
#14
E R I S

"A bloody, lying bitch..."

A chilly chuckle tumbles from the mistress' mouth, cold blue eyes stare at the filly filly who had made the mistake of speaking far too boldly. It amused her that the younger being had the stomach to stand up to The Empress' little gorgeous spy. Curiosity filled her as too how brave the little filly would be to the culprit's face. A leer painted her face, shrugging out from behind some shrubs, bright blue orbs settled on the little mouse that had squeaked far too loudly.

"You far to sweet my little mouse," smirking, the vermillion goddess waited for the next squeak that was bound to lave the filly. "Only I simply can't have you talking so rudely to the beautiful black raven over there." Eris sighed and let the leer melt off of her face. "You see the black lady is my loyal subject, I will protect her against all threats." A girlish giggle tumbles for her lips. This might turn out to be quite a lot of fun. "Even if the one making the threats is a little filly." She had no boundaries, it did not matter that she might be sinking to the filly's level. To Eris, anyone that threatened her family should die. Simple.

Only killing this annoying little rat wouldn't really be much fun at all, if anything it would make her life a little less annoying. Once the queen had let the mouse before her scamper off with her heart still beating and her tail between her legs. Now? Now the mouse was a rat that had grown much bolder...bold enough to speak poorly about her. What on earth was she going to do about that?! "Killing you may shut you up...but keeping you alive may prove to be much richer entertainment." While she pondered wether to kill the filly or to keep her as a source of entertainment, Eris looks over to the stallion that smelled like fresh meat. Cocking her head to the side, Eris looked over the queer stallion, never before had she seen such an unusual coloured unicorn. His sparkly ass did little to impress her, it was her mind that would prove him worthy of her attention. "Quite the situation you've gotten yourself into little deer."

Moving to stand next to Circuta, Eris does her best to ignore the presence of Oxy. The Empress wasn't quite sure of what to make of him, in many ways his unstable mind was rather dangerous. "Who is this my little dove?" Asking after the fresh meat seemed rather strange to the golden mare. Normally she ignored them. Carefully Eris closes the gap between them and gently brushes her check along the black mare's. Eris quite liked that beautiful dove that Arlo had brought home, it was in the Empress' mind to make Circuta her lady. Not in the romantic sense, more as great friends who relied on each other. Pulling away from the touch, the mare glances to 'mouse' to make sure that the vexatious girl had not scampered off to hide under a tree. Next her eyes turn to Oxy, she offers him a slightly sensual wink before finally coming back to study 'fresh meat'.

" "
540 words.

They built my city on top of a grave,
Now the dead roam the street like a rotting parade,
Quarantined and forgotten for days,
These are the stories of those who have gotten away


Somnus Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#15
"We get it; anyone can speak ill of each other's land and anyone can speak greatly of their own land. Stop the petty arguments." Somnus speaks, voice calm but firm, after the foal - Frost Fyre - spits at Circuta. The Temptress then turns to him, slender bodice dancing towards him. He stiffens slightly, lids narrowing slightly to partially cover his orbs. She gets oh so close and he knows she is tempting him, daring him, but she is intoxicating and it's blocking his thoughts. Somnus aches to reach out to touch her, his whole body craving the seductress's venomous touch. She, the venomous fly trap and he the fly. She is so close, so close her lashes tickle his skin when they dip down, voice dropping low and sweet. His nares flare, heart thudding in his throat quickly. His features say otherwise, though, they remain as they did before; eyes slightly narrowed and body slightly stiffened. But he wants to touch her. But his mind resurfaces and it tells him it's only her game, her ploy.

And then she finally touches him, just a small touch, but it sends instant relief trough him and what little stiffness held him now disappeared. The sands which you weave are tranquil, serene. They form shapes unlike that of many, unique, and blessed, you are. Yet, your speech is of elegance, composed, diplomatic.. A psychologist, a artisan, and yet you would serve well alongside me, as a visionary, Weaver. The choice would be yours to make.' Her voice returns to normal and his head clears, and he is proud of his self control, despite the fact it nearly broke. "So I am no warrior to you, Temptress?" I can use names too.

The Temptress explains her home - not what it looks like, but what they do, or offer she puts it. 'We offer serenity, we care for those who may not be accepted anywhere else,' I stiffen, "What are you implying, Circuta? Would I not be accepted elsewhere?"

The Beast remains silent. The child fumes, and she was calling me foolish. How dare a child call me foolish? My eye narrow visibly as she says so, tail hitting my splattered sides as I stare her down. 'You are far too gifted to live with such scum as this. And they are led by a bloody, lying bitch.' Probably supposed to be a compliment - but the word gifted acts like it did when Circuta said "for those who might not be accepted anywhere else". I let it slide though, deciding that it should be a compliment with what the way she says it.

A chuckle, so cold it might freeze one's bones, rings through the clearing as a golden body steps through the trees. So this must be the one the child was speaking so poorly off. Eris, Circuta had said. She speaks to Frost, words too kind for her dark undertone, and then a giggle escapes her. A shudder runs down his spine... no no no. This was way too creepy. And it just gets worse. 'Killing you may shut you up...but keeping you alive may prove to be much richer entertainment.'

Wait. WHAT?

Killing? Somnus's first instinct is to run and go back the way he came, but he doesn't. And he knows its stupid of him not to. 'Quite the situation you've gotten yourself into little deer.' She speaks to him, now. He smiles at her, bright eyes looking into her - daring, unafraid.. foolish. "Indeed. It has unfolded all on it's own, I have said but a few words." He replies, turning his eyes to all four of them.

Somnus
I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word.
coding used with permission from wanderer

Circuta Posts: 100
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 7 Buff: NOVICE
Rhawon :: Siberian Tiger :: None aeolle
#16
Offense and affront are spat into the warmth of the morning air with the temptations of a fight in it's wake, and indigo's laze once more to the charcoal and earth girl, even as the Weaver of the Sands speaks to them both, even as the Weaver of the Sands tells them to stop, and in response, the Temptress does not respond to the Girl of the Basin. But the Seeker's gaze flits with bitter amusement in the tidings of a admission and a attack, and she thinks her unspoken lyrics in mockery and sadistic muse. And you are better, are you?
The Asylum threatens those that they prey upon with tooth and claw, indeed, and the Basin threatens those birthed into the world with no stick to sprout from their foreheads, with wings of avians in the stead of those with smoothed backs and lacks of new appendages. The woman herself is given with occasion to racism, but she has seen the brute force of the equines, the delicate wisps of the winged, and the good of the horned. The differences are subtle, and lines erase themselves from her conscious as time meanders on, for what right does the Seeker have to curse the works the divines have crafted, what right does the Seeker have to insult her equals, her betters, and those whom she holds dear? Is it so much better, then, doll, to rip wings from flesh then threaten one's life with acidic poison? The logic does not meet her brain, and she would laugh at the childe's incompetence, if she did not hold herself with such grace. We are not so different, you, and I.

Lyrics are called forth from the Weaver again, a response to the murmurs and mixing of poets writings and she allows a gentle smile to brush her maw
as she returns attentions to him. A playful tinge is spoken in retaliation, are you one of that who wishes to muddy your coat and bleed unto the same sands you call into existence? "Do you want to be a warrior to me, Weaver?"
He speaks once more, yet tensions seem to rise in his tones, the affection of a nickname rolls into her title, and the harshness in which it is
spoken is allowed the slightest of flinching in her soul. It shows none on her face, yet a kind tone and softening of gaze is given in response. I didn't mean it that way. You know that.
"No. My intention's are only meant that we accept all, in kindness, and aid them. A attribute of our people. I have no reason to apply the attribute to you, and nor does it apply to all of our family."
Her song soothes nerves and calms tensions, and she allows the honey of her words to drip with sweet attire, I apologize.

Fumes and tantrums are spat once more into the air, the trills of noisy birds in her eardrums, and once more her attentions are dragged with force unto the child, as she speaks of webs and snares, and she hums in response. How dare you speak with pretense to know my intent?
The Seeker weaves webs with all, not the Weaver of the Sands alone. Her webs are what make her diplomatic, and do not fill her with harsh grates that turn away the potentials of allies, of recruits, of friends. They hide the glass beneath, the heart encased in cold metal, and her webs are given as a protection of both, her, and them, to hide the ice that creeps in her veins, to keep the ice from freezing all of them, to keep it from tainting the souls of the pure and innocent.
"Do you speak for him?" The lyrics are breathed still, and calm, but the childe continues on and she stares with polite indifference to the girl.
As she gazes upon the young one, she speaks to the Weaver, soft and thoughtful. "Know that the other lands are given to deities as well. The Throat to the God of the Sun. The Edge to the Goddess of the Moon. The Foothills to the God of the Earth." If your opinions are so swayed.

And still, the words are spat forth from the little girls lips, the Seeker is amazed that spittle is not flying from her maw and dribbling down her chin even now. Perhaps you belong in the Asylum as well, doll. But the lyrics, if the Seeker can call them lyrics that spin from her stretch the string thin and wide, and the band that holds the string together is strained with its hold. The doll has insulted the Seeker, her brother who stands near her, and her vermilion Queen.
Righteous anger flashes in her violet expressions, and does the Seeker not have a right to be? It is sent upon downy feather wings and curls into a fist around her heart, pumps into her veins with sluggish movements and scalds her with heat. Lyrics spin from her maw, and they are even softer, void of emotion, intent and insult, and the lack of it that is present in her tone is perhaps the most terrifying thing the Seeker has done in this meeting of chances. The softness of how she speaks, the lack of throwing herself with fangs at the ready at the little childe, it speaks with red alerts danger, danger, for is it not the patient that strike with the most force? The softest of speakers that turn into the hardest of foes? When the patience runs out, what but blood thirst is left? And yet, perhaps the Weaver shall appreciate her control, the lack of insult, the defense of her people and not of herself. For she is scum, she is twisted and broken and damned and she understands this. She is. But cursed is he who insults her loves, her siblings, I would defend you as well, Weaver, if you stood alongside my kin.
"Are you quite so keen to insulting my kin, my Queen? Pe-channas." The end of her lyrics is spoken in a ancient tongue, light and wispy, one she was brought up with, and one she is familiar with in all terms and ways. Idiot.
So the Seeker has insulted the girl, with ancient tongue and hidden meanings, for all the venom in her voice she might have been saying doll, for there is a complete and utter lack of it, and she leaves no hints to what the foreign tongue means. Violets flick back to the Seeker, calm, relaxed, the Temptress reflects the oceans with ease. Somewhere between where the girl has insulted her kin she has moved towards Plaguebearer, a cat-like move that speaks if she had the ability to stretch her spine into a defensive, angry curl, she would have it arched. The Plaguebearer can no doubt defend himself, but for the divines sake the girl has went too far insulting him in her presence.

It is then that her vermilion Lady emerges forth from the shadows, her frosted chuckle leaving a second of a warning as her violets flash to the shrubbery, elegance and ease roll from her frame as water from a avians feathers and a delighted smile meets her maw as she sees the ice cold depths of her mistresses cerulean pearls.
A mockery of a mouse is spoken from her lyrics, and it seems her Queen shall do the work of all the insults that she has not spit towards the girl. She speaks of her, and a modest dip of the head is given in response, though she knows her Queen shall most likely not see it, for her attentions are given to the mouse.
A mouse more like a rat. If only the Seeker knew how close her Queen and her's thoughts were in that moment, it might have intrigued her.

A girlish giggle escapes her in song, far too giddy to be placed with such a cold undertone, and whereas the Temptress finds it with affection, she is aware those who do not know her Queen well would find it..
Eerie, spine-chilling, and uncanny.

Ah, yes, her Lady speaks of death and its perks and lows. Violets flash to the girl once more, a ice forming within her gaze to match the Goddesses. The specimen had a gorgeous coat.. It would look quite well on her apparel, draped across her shoulders, to fall down to her hooves. She could place those pretty little emeralds into a jar, and allow them to wither as she would the acidic charcoal woman who had escaped the Asylum's grasps. But would it be more amusing to cut sinew from bone in precise, light amounts? To allow blood to clot and stink her charcoal and earth apparel, to rip mane from its placings and snap ligaments in half, it would be far more amusing to cut the horn from her brow and watch her suffer in her unrighteousness. It was long, and delicate, and the Seeker observes this with a dark expression mulling around in her pearls. Violets flick to her Queen, then back to the girls horn. Would her Lady catch the hint? Did she understand what the Seeker wished to do? They could hunt her later, bring along the bloodthirsty equine with a felines companion and a taste for flesh. They could torture her in ways the little girl could not imagine, leave scars unto her heart and soul to stay with her forever. The glance would likely make little sense to the Weaver and the Daughter of the Basin, but to her Queen, and perhaps the Plaguebearer, it's meaning would break through to. Torture, torture, torture, it sings with glee.

The Seeker almost misses the words spoken to the Weaver, but she does not miss the step closer to her frame. Attention given wholly to her Queen, she allows the tiniest of bows, rising as the Goddess moves forward, the gap between the two closing as friendship kindles in the faintest brush of a cheek. "Hiril vuin." She acknowledges her, beloved Lady.
"A sand weaver, my Queen." He has not given us his name, the murmur of her thoughts seems to hint into her voice. He weaves magic of the sands.
Interest piques as a liquid gaze turns to him once more; does the Weaver even know his name?
A crumb of knowledge sews itself into her mind and she wonders at the whisper: Amnesia?


Circuta</style>
who's the killer in the crowd -</style>
Credits
AHMEDBAKIR : VENOMXBABY : GALAXIESANDDUST : SALSOLASTOCK</style>

Cause she's a Cruel Mistress
And a bargain must be made

Oxy the Addict Posts: 322
Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 7.5 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2hh :: 9 [Tallsun] HP: 73.5 | Buff: DANCE
Unnamed :: Common Boggart :: Mayhem Sevin
#17
As you glare at the little filly, you feel the drugs begin to pull tighter at your mind. They grasp and claw, weaving into the grooves of your brain and becoming one with you and your thoughts. They cinch down, pulling just a little too tight, wanting to be just a little too close. Your lower lip begins to sag and you quickly pull it back into place. And then you sway just a little too much, but you move your foot out slight to keep yourself standing. You've got to keep it together. You shouldn't have eaten those plants. For someone who enjoys them so much, you think this thought far too often.

As for the filly, she's lucky. Just as you grow weary of her blabbering, are grated well past your breaking point by her stupid words, the glass horn's lesbian lover joins the scene. The filly's lucky because you were certainly about to move towards her and smash the shit out of her brains. Eris is in your way. Snorting your disappointment, you listen to your “queen's” words and have to avoid rolling your eyes. Self control is getting more difficult but somehow you manage it. You want to tell the lesbian to go somewhere else, to leave you be, that you had the phantom seeker had this rather under control. But it wouldn't do disrespect her in front of a prospect. Instead, you sit and stew. You see the way she ignores you, pretends you don't exist. You see the way she cheers for Circuta and treats her like a house pet while you are left chained to the tree outside with hardly a scrap of meat thrown your way. Slowly, your ears go half-back. The lesbian would have your undying loyalty, if only she would provide you respect. Instead, she's alienating you, making an enemy of her own family member. But suddenly, her wink is an odd puncuation to your thoughts. It cuts them short, leaving you wondering what exactly she wanted.

So I am no warrior to you, Temptress? He buys into her game the same way you have. And just as you have fallen prey to the sugary girl's temptations, he will too. And she answers, they're back and forth intimate. Between the thickening sheets of fog, you almost feel as though you are watching a moment not meant for the eyes of others. Yet it must be, because you are here. And the phantom seeker is defending you, moving towards you. Your body leans towards hers, desperate to feel the touch she teased the sand weaver with, though you can't say why. You are but a moth to her burning flame in this moment, a drug induced lust for the girl's perfect frame beginning to rage within you. Instead, you shift uncomfortably. Whispers in the back of your mind remind you this meeting is about the sand weaver. Not you.

As for the looks between the seeker and the lesbian, you do not notice them. You are too busy fighting your internal war. You cannot say you would disagree with them, though. The small thing has made an enemy of a group too crazy to know when to stop. She should be frightened. If she is not, there is something wrong with her head, and perhaps she belongs with the lot of you. But time passes by, and with each moment you are sinking further into a sea of green haze. This meeting must conclude soon, or you will certainly fall to their feet and stare like an invalid at the sky. The drugs beat out your rational mind this time, as you speak a little slower than before. “The sun passes by,” you say with agitation. Time is ticking. Make your choice. And yet, despite your words to the weaver, your eyes do not leave the filly. You take a wobbly step towards her, a rumbling noise vibrating your chest. It pains you to take a step away from the sugar lipped seeker, but blood is stronger than sugar water. And you want the filly's blood.
we all look for ways to make the pain go away
- bg - table - manip -
Permission granted to use magic or physical force with Oxy at any time for any reason to any degree, with the exception of killing him.

Please do not tag Oxy unless it is in an opening post

Frost Fyre Posts: 198
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3hh :: 6 Years HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Altair :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast prissy
#18

The girl's words escaped at the wrong time, leaving her to shut her mouth as the bloody mare she spoke of to hear her last words. She chuckles and the fae's heart stops dead, her body beginning to form droplets of fear and salt, which leaked from her pours and bled down her skin. The girl simply leaves her audits back, molded to her skin. She snorts, agitated by the gathered adults. She was just about ready to throw a few kicks and insults, but held herself back, not wanting to begin such a childish feud. The maiden finally opens her lips to spit back, her venom just as strong. "Threaten me one more time and you'll regret your choice of victim." The girl flares her nostrils and steps forward a few strides, throwing her face into the face of the bloody haired scum.

The fae returns to her original setting, letting more lyrics flow free from her kissers. "See here? These are the beasts you should avoid. Don't get yourself mixed in with them unless you have a death wish." The girl gazes as the Weaver, emerald eyes curiously taking hold of the stallion's appearance. She thinks of a man like him drifting through the Basin, cloven hooves leaving split prints in the soft snow. A smile grows upon her lips before the fae realizes how strange she must look, her lips turning back to the solemn horizon they once were.

She lets her eyes drift back to the blood dressed woman in gold, the fae's mind showing her images of her run in with the witch. A shiver runs down her spine as she recalls the mare, threatening her if she did not leak information. She told the girl her life would end if she told another soul about their meeting, and the fae had kept her lips shut. For now. As she gazed at the blue-eyed demon she felt a sudden urge to run back to her home, crying out that there was a heard of monsters living in the Marsh. She wondered what her Lord and Lady would do if they knew of them, if they would turn to them as allies or as foes. The fae averts her attention back to the fresh meat, gazing at him with a neutral expression upon her face.

"Speech."

FROST FYRE
Second chances they don't ever matter, people never change.

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Dawn is coming
open your eyes

Somnus Posts: N/A
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#19
'Do you want to be a warrior to me, Weaver?' My eyes flicker over to her bodice. If you'll let me, my mind tempts my lips to part and spew, but I am stronger than that. She is good at her game. And a game I must remind myself it is. She cares for no one - she's just another pretty, heartless, bitch that makes you believe you are the one, only to reveal everything from under your skin to everyone.

'No. My intention's are only meant that we accept all, in kindness, and aid them. A attribute of our people. I have no reason to apply the attribute to you, and nor does it apply to all of our family,' she answers. My eyes roll off her body. My decision had been made. Though it's not quite fair when there are three against one.

The sands return quickly, soft and golden, shimmering and soothing when the Temptress tells her Queen he was a Sand Weaver. A smile fills his face as it bowls around his feet, sliding across the ground to graze Circuta's hooves before returning to it's master. 'The sun passes by,' Oxy remakes. I turn to him, "Yes, I am sorry it has taken so long for a decision-" I am cut off by the filly's rants and now meaningless retorts.

'See here? These are the beasts you should avoid. Don't get yourself mixed in with them unless you have a death wish.' I turn and step to her, a smile upon my lips. "I must dance upon the idea of danger, then. It's more exciting than the idea of a frozen land. Maybe we'll meet again, Frost Fyre -" I say to her, lowering my voice, "- I suggest you leave before someone gets hurt." I tell her gently, stepping back to the three of the Asylum.

The sands curl at my feet and crash vehemently, as if excited for my decision. "Lead the way, Temptress, Beast and Queen." I say to them, dipping my crown as my heart thuds against my chest.

Maybe it was the danger that was appealing to me. Maybe it was the danger that made me choose to jump on the crazy train. Maybe it just felt right.

Somnus
I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word.
coding used with permission from wanderer


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