| Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hands :: 4 years of age HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Thingol :: Raven :: None
krazie |
11-02-2013, 11:33 AM
(This post was last modified: 11-02-2013, 11:33 AM by Lothíriel.)
we might be hollow but we're brave.
When Mother had led her here, Lothíriel had gasped with wonderment. An endless blue spans had been laid out before them, like the pale winter tundra which neighbored her home. Though the fine sand chafed the cleft of her hooves and got into her eyes and mouth and nose, the girl finally knew why her dam loved this place so: a brilliant summer sun illuminated the ocean, causing it to glitter and shine like gossamer. Lothíriel's florid eyes had transfixed on a horizon that was so distant and so near at the same time. If she could fly, she would chase it; would it grow ever more far, or would the world end abruptly, water crashing down into the sky at the horizon's end? The thought of having wings on her back repulsed her—could she fly without them? Could she feel the wind roaring beneath her belly, the clouds tickling her legs as she soared high above the earth?
Mother had left her here alone for a few hours in this marvelous place, and Lothíriel decided to make the most of it.
There was a certain peace to the lulling sound of the waves crashing into the shore, like a song so ancient many had forgotten its melody. Gulls crowed in tune, their wings casting shadows over the small child standing by the shore, leonine tail flicking absently as if in deep thought. She had the sudden urge to sing, her voice keening far above the birds would ever go. A note slipped from her lips, tentative and shy, more of an echo than a beat in itself. The gulls stopped their flight, the sea seemed to pause, waiting for another, and another she did let slip, and another and another until she harmonized with the sea and the birds. Their's was the haunting sound of the sea and things that lived far below the surface of the ocean, never to see the light of day. Lothíriel knew not what these things were, or even if they existed, but she sang along nevertheless, fond of the sound of her high, lilting voice.
"talk"
|
credits
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Death roamed with no particular design, macabre machinations for once unclear, unfocused, not fettered, aligned or chained to deplorable acts or heinous abominations. Under the crisp, monstrous multitude, he simply moved, a bewitching, alluring, scintillating essence of demise, the quiet, haunting, poignant and evocative scope of quietus, of the sliding, intertwining ardency of feral ferocity. Consuming, swallowing and devouring harpsichord sentiments and raptures, destroying the inept predilections of vacuous souls, feverishly, rapaciously coveting the earth with each sinful step, each sinuous, iniquitous stride. Under the guise of wandering he settled into avaricious plumes and covert fortifications, pressing agony into soil, composing anguish into loam, ravaging and pillaging the horrifying voids of punctured, lacerated antipathies, presenting animosity, calamity, destruction in the vicious, vile, virulent haze. A pernicious, potent hum and hymn amongst the silence deliberations, the coiled calculations, the desecrated, renounced, blistered fiends, he was the triumphant, the sullied, the condemned and crowned, master of Mephistopheles’ malicious maelstroms, Satan’s scathing strokes. Now Lord, now King, now sovereign of a barbaric land that he’d restore, renew, sculpt and mold into vivid brutality, into devouring tides and molten grasps, nefarious culminations and sinister horrors, where the world would watch, wait, and listen for the wicked doldrums, for the seething blend, of their daggers, of their swords, of their armor, clashing into their corpses.
Distracted from his portended onslaughts and stitched terrors, the familiar scent of his daughter flourished across the wake of the ocean, and his following footsteps found her in the bounty of her mother’s element, cast into waves and gulls. Like a lamb of the sea, she sang into its fathoms and depths, and he nearly laughed at his overwhelming fortune; power, legacy and devotion sticking to his ribs, to his lungs, to the beating, villainous columns of his heart. For what reason had he been granted such gifts? Loyalty to crown, to realm, to kingdom and empire, or the outstretched grasp of hell, bound to its innards and entrails, rewarded in his reticence by the opulence of creed, possessions and treasures? No matter the circumstances of his bestowals, he conspired to never be rid of their traces, their tresses, their gilded spires and embraces, protecting, guarding, shielding and surveying with every venomous swing of his rapier, with every barbaric hum of his cutlass.
He thought to watch her from afar, permit the composure, the rapture, of a child beneath the open arms of the air, revel in innocence, conspire and contort in the alms of the wilderness. His offspring should be allowed to dream of grandeur without the brutal armaments casting contemptuous shades over their eyes, their hearts, their hopes, should be permitted to waltz and beckon the power of their decadence when they saw fit. A ghost of a smile wandered over his lips, boyish, awkward, ill fitting and rarely used, but in her company, it seemingly appeared with whim, without stone, without reticence and loathing. His bestial form touched upon rock, leaned into the sturdy figure of a boulder, a wall, a sanctuary, refusing to fade beneath the deleterious length of his contact and convergence. The Reaper uttered one grate of his voice, an idle, transient, fleeting reverberation to kindle his daughter’s attention, a belle amongst beasts, bestowing his appearance, asking naught more. “Loth.”
| Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hands :: 4 years of age HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Thingol :: Raven :: None
krazie |
we might be hollow but we're brave.
She soon grew bored with this whimsical crooning, and bade the sea-birds away with an erroneous note. Their pale wings sent them scattering over a blue sky so perfect she couldn't comprehend its depth, bits of down feather flitting down to the sand with careless ease. For a moment, the child stood perfectly still, not even a whisker on her body quivering in the faint wind. There was naught but the eternal lullaby of the waves to fill her mind, so she stood under the pleasant summer sun and enjoyed it, eyes closing as she took in the smell of salt on the gentle sea breezes and the pleasant wetness over her fetlocks as the brine washed over it, foam clinging to the shedding fur. When the stillness grew tiresome, she took to swaying lightly, as if fancying herself a leaf on a palm tree. A carpet of pale flowers spread from her feet, poking their heads gingerly over the gritty sand, washing away with the tides when the water swirled over them. She sighed softly. When would Mother come back?
"Loth." A broad smile spread over her lips at the sound of her name spoken over the wind. Eagerly, her head twisted backward, eyes scanning the bright surroundings to find her father. She found him perched upon a boulder, a smile on his features which seemed nor odd nor ill-fitting on his face. "Papa!" she called voraciously, open admiration playing on her face as she watched him; he was not a king of death or a herald of terror to the filly, not a Lord or god or even intimidating: he was Papa, and a solid half of her ever-growing world. With barely suppressed glee, spindly legs traipsed over the dunes of sand that lay between them like an endless waste, her destination resolute even as the sun-warmed granules scalded the bottoms of her hooves and chafed the delicate skin of her limbs. When the distance between them was closed, she paused before him, delicate head craning upward to look at his looming form as he stood upon the stone pedestal, her tail wagging with delight. He was magnificent, as any father should be to their children: tall and brave and wise, but not untouchable, not beyond reach. She loved him fiercely, and felt that if it came to it, she would pick every flower from her trail for him (and that was a lot).
After a moment, she looked back toward the sea, wide eyes full to the brim with visions of virtue and water. Her smile dimmed into thought: a strange thing to see on the face of a child. She looked back to Deimos. "Does it ever end?" she wondered.
|
credits
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
He was a barbaric beast in the toils and coils of turbulent anarchy, a slaughtering, mauling machine, a brutal, severe sculpture and carving of calamity, and in front of his daughter, he seemed naught more than a paragon. The admiration, veneration, esteem and acclaim woven through her eyes hid all his vices, all his sins, all his licentious creeds and portended pursuits into a fine, laced, plaited edge of potency; power, not corruption, not damnation, not massacre or obliteration. Precision in pernicious assaults, in raw, consuming undulations, in vicious, heinous bombardments, didn’t echo or chime in the child’s mind, didn’t claim the fortitude, the boldness, the clamor of her candor – and so his smile remained, chiseled into marred features of stone and marble. His life was pulled and twisted into various forms: a kingdom, ruins and desecrations, his empire rising and others falling, crumbling and crumpling to their knees, but she, this tiny, delicate cherub, captivated and chained him far more than the art and malice of destruction. The Reaper would commit any action, any movement, any licentious, fiendish, diabolical machination for her, unfold and croon the mold of satanic reverie, capture and uncoil, beguile, allure, the infernal glory of Mephistopheles’ chains. She was made from death and rain, scalded and shaped by the hands of rivulets and maelstroms, augured for the might, the weight, of his dominion, of his supremacy, of worlds lost and forgotten, etched and engraved with promise, prowess, capability and faculty for the future, and she’d easily strung his devotion across her tiny, seraphic form. What would she become, with all these blossoms, all these petals, strung about her hair and air? A poet laureate of virtue and singsongs? A beautiful, archaic, willowy conjecture of benediction and supremacy, combing the laurels for her subjects, to establish her rule and reign? A bold seraph, igniting the brimming, brewing fervor of her father’s lineage, or a proud, composed raincloud like her mother, all rune and regret?
Like a luminescent cord of light, she traipsed over sand and dunes, and his careful, scrutinizing eyes followed each movement and motion of her effervescent actions. The monster nearly laughed at her delight, at her wonder and whimsy, but caught himself before the sound barbed his throat, and instead, focused upon the world she gazed upon. The ocean reminded him of many things; the endless, reticent design of its edges, how mass and power could erupt from a tiny stream, flood into the fathomless depths of enveloping, pervading derision, embrace sinking cities, capture the unassuming, the ignorant, the inept. Of a world beyond this one, a land Loth would never know, destroyed, dissolute, renounced and forgotten except by the few who belonged to its containments, of warm, moonlit tides and his mother following him across the shore, of a burning, wholesome sire who ignited the world. Neither Huyana or himself could ever show her the breathtaking sovereignty of a kingdom murmured and soaked into dust and decay, of her ancestors pressing their strong, dedicated hooves into warfare, persevering, persisting, enduring, of Isilme and all of its unraveling, snarled threads – but he could manifest and convey the influence, the dominance, the callous clarity of their puissance. His lips returned to their solemn, stoic finesse, machinations revolving and twisting into their meticulous threads, and he stared down at the child once more, murmured the grandeur of his challenge. “Let us find out.” The Reaper turned, shifted the molding of his nefarious statue towards the ocean, allowing the brine to engulf his hooves, to immerse the might, the domination, of his prowess into another, an overwhelming bounty of discordant fortitude churning and mingling together to satisfy a curious mind.
| Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hands :: 4 years of age HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Thingol :: Raven :: None
krazie |
we might be hollow but we're brave. With a single phrase and a glance, he descended from his perch on the rock, coming down onto the beach and heading towards shore. Lothíriel's stomach stirred with twin delight and apprehension: did he intend to plunge into the ocean's depths? Did he intend for her to follow? Hooves smote upon the sand swiftly and gracefully as they carried her toward the water in a high-stepping, prancing gait which betrayed her excitement. Like a behemoth so vast, not even the deepest of thinkers could convey its grandness, this ocean spread out before the two unicorns like the unreadable pages of a giant scroll. Did Mother know how to decipher the letters and runes of this ancient text, unravel the strings of foam like the phrases of written word? Without hesitation, Father went into the sea, allowing the brine to lap over strong cloven hooves. Curiosity sparkled in her eyes like stars as she watched this; her head tilted with the purest of wonders, of queries as wide and deep as this sprawling water. The corners of her mouth pulled back into a brave smile, reflecting onto her gaze in a vision of gaiety and childish dreams. "Mother says the first unicorn was born from sea-foam," she said, perhaps to break the lull between their voices, to drown out the ponderous murmurs of the sea, a language so old and so fabled she could not even begin to make out the meaning. Huyana had often told her daughter of the sea, of Cinnoru's dominion and the foolishness which brought about his downfall in an attempt to raze the racism so characteristic to their shared blood.
A tiny cleft hoof, so small compared to her father's it was almost laughable, made a ginger attempt at penetrating the brine. It went in coronet-deep, and a shiver ran down her spine and she felt its coldness ache in her bones. She glanced at father—he did not seem to mind the sensation, so without further ordeal, the girl moved into the ocean, felt its vastness, its cruelty, its grace running through her blood. Was this the crowning glory of her ancestors, so far removed from this strange land? Did the Cunning look upon this very oceans a millennium ago, seeking his glory? Awkwardly, the filly made her way closer to Deimos, chin held stiffly against her neck as her legs attempted to drag through the water. The flashing bodies of silver fish darted in the water between them. Lothíriel did not know whether to be amazed or frightened at this entirely new world, so she looked at her father with glittering lavender eyes. "What's beyond the end of the sea?" she queried, endlessly curious. Was it the fabled Isilme of their past, laid to waste by the imprudent, the unwise, those unwilling to bow? If there was one bit of knowledge Huyana did not want to impart to her child, it was the ruin of the land of moonlight, the comeuppance of the dead. From behind absurdly long eyelashes, the girl watched the horizon, imagining all sorts of mysteries and relics which laid just beyond the edge of the sea. |
credits
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Death yearned to show his daughter the lengths of domination and supremacy, over the winding waves and the rippling current, along the zealous pathways and inner columns of indignation, severity and sovereignty – to worlds unconquered, awaiting their heinous, heathen declarations and destruction. Strewn pebbles, chaotic frames, masters of divination and coiled, savage snippets of decadence, waiting, brewing, and decaying amongst their untouched labyrinths and paradigms. Bloodshed, mayhem, bedlam, entropy and enmity, apathy and relentless courtyards, hollowed, vacant halls, crisp, unholy villainy and violence, left in hallowed silence, repose, and peace for far too long. Were he able, he’d carry the lithe babe upon his back, march across the air, the sun, the moon, the stars, to uncover and reveal the aspiring earth, with its nefariousness, with its poise, with its kingdoms. One singular glance towards the child, however, elegant, young, vibrant and too new, too fresh, too innocent, waylaid the tempestuous, turbulent motivations. The desire for her safety, her protection, far outweighed the push, pull, enticement and allure of treachery, and as a being of infinite patience, composure and fortitude, he could await days of mayhem with the bright, effervescent scion. Time would slink by in feverish requiems, and he chose to embrace the present instead of the presaged condemnation, corruption and brutal oblivion of coming years. Barbarity would have its moments, but not in these idle hours, dipping into the horizon and thriving in the siege of his might, his power, his prowess and precision.
Deimos purposefully stuck to the shallows, feeding off the cool, unearthly granules of rolling tides and powerful strokes, listening to the whines and bays of gulls, watching the sea foam gurgle and froth along tumbling sways and billows, a quiet witness to the world, instead of the beast seeking to destroy it. He held fast to the listless lull, the hushed, serene, tranquil moments, where the earth failed to simmer beneath his touch, when interlopers didn’t press their hides into his kingdom, extending, reaching, grasping upon the tender nuances of his daughter’s voice or the vivacious, passionate claims and clamor of her infant steps. Mother says the first Unicorn was born from sea-foam. Already Huyana spun her mythos and tales of their origin, and a small, minute smile chiseled its way back into his features, wore the iron brow into more boyish qualities, as he swung his cranium back towards the tiny lady of blossoms, deep vocals breaking over the shoal and surf. “Your mother is wise.” Cinnoru, their ancestor, marking the ways of the water, of the sea, of the constant, eternal swing across floating brine and chiseling, manifesting, the plunge into smothering fathoms. His blood had deviated from the chosen element, but the lineage was still there, rigorously placed in the scrape of his harpooning spear and his satanic sword; flowed elegantly across the shoulders and face of his daughter, along the swift, minuet grace of her dam. She followed him thereafter, dipped into the swell, lapped and welcomed by the lilting embrace of the waves. Not snatched, not stolen, not absconded, but treated as its brethren, rhapsody and ruin streamed and empowered. The beast stayed close, one step away from rescuing her from some searing plight, but she remained aloft, self-possessed, querying instead of quaking. His gaze strayed for an instant, stared upon the boundless, immeasurable skyline, promises of influence, dominion, sway and authority, the ghostly embarking of future crusades, before turning his way towards his descendent. His eyes, forever chilling and cold, hinted at mischief, a boy’s lost token of moments spent upon moonlit shores, and his voice curled and coiled amongst their midst, daunting and poignant. “Mysteries, secrets, kingdoms and empires. When you are ready, we shall unravel them.”
| Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hands :: 4 years of age HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Thingol :: Raven :: None
krazie |
we might be hollow but we're brave.
In the eyes of the girl, who had been alive for barely a season, Father was the steadfast boulder in a sea of uncertainties and unknowables, the guiding light in a darkness so vast, she could barely see her own nose. To creatures as young as she, the world was a big, strange thing; not frightening (she did not yet know of those things), but not entirely trustworthy, either. She knew only the softness of Mother's words (and all the places her stories took her) and Father's bravery: he led her into the ocean, the birthplace of her forefathers, a place that gave both life and misery to all it enveloped; and here she stood, ankle-deep in this dually blessed and cursed substance where the flowers failed to blossom. Your mother is wise, he told her, and the girl's eyes lit up.
Gingerly, she dropped her muzzle to caress the water, surprised to find the taste acrid and salty—much different than the sweetness of the Basin's lake and the richness of Mother's milk. Lothíriel scrunched up her nose and made a face, turning her florid gaze upward to look at Father. He stood ever close, like a lady's knight, bracing her against the distant sea, but his eyes (even bluer than the seas, she noted proudly) betrayed distance, as if his mind had gone to a faraway land. Curiosity piqued interest, but she bit it down, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts. Mysteries, secrets, kingdoms and empires. When you are ready, we shall unravel them, he told her, and the inquiry swelled even larger against her delicate chest. Fuzzy ears far too large for such a small head tilted backwards with uneasiness. Was he hinting at a world far larger than the one she had witnessed in the short span of her lifetime? Did he allude to greater, darker things—things Mother had promised to show her, but when the time came? But I am ready, she wanted to tell him, but something within her told her she was not, so the girl bit her tongue and managed a wondering expression across telling eyes.
"Mother showed me the mirror once," she quipped after a moment of thought, a delicate hoof pawing at the water, scratching at the bubbly sea-foam. Brows furrowed over a lovely face, not troubled, but pensive. "We were not in it." She remembered how eerie it had been; it showed the reflection of neither her nor her mother, but only the cavern wall behind her, as if they did not exist within the spanse of its frame, the swirling magnetism of its reflection. Did that god she called to reside in it, waiting for the summon of her mother's word? Loth had half-expected for him to greet her (after all, was she not important? Daughter of Death and Rain and harbringer of blooms?) but he did not, and she went to bed that night feeling uneasy. Would her life always be as easy as it had been? The mirror only confirmed how insignificant her life was; but could that be changed? Could she become as memorable as those of her bloodline had been?
|
credits
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Carved from the side of mountains, rock and rubble, living Lucifer claws and irreverent iniquities, touched and beloved by a child of flowers, crowns and laurels, Daphne and persimmons, combination of rain and death springing from rubble and ruin. Instead of abhorrence, instead of repose, their strangeness and charm molded into beauty, elegance and curiosity; any atavistic prose and poise would likely filter and trickle into her being later on, as her world, horizon, blackened, charred by the nuances of their vile, cruel tendencies (but he’d be behind her, surrounding her with the presence of strength, potency, power laced and corroding the innards of enemies; desecration in her hands and daggers). In the present, she was allotted the precious rankling of time, awarding her with the gifts of knowledge, curiosity and intrigue, journeys curled from the set of her widened eyes, the expression of wily, cunning deeds, or even the harsh deities spinning webs and snares from beyond. The notion of gods and goddesses had never touched upon his soul with any acclaim, honor or faith; his convictions had been long since chiseled away into contempt, loathing, and vehemence, pierced by devils and infidels, until he was eldritch, until he was abominable, horrifying, the terror in the midst and mist, stifling shadowed abysses and hostile labyrinths, ensuring destruction in the wake of his existence. Perhaps long ago, when robbed of childhood, he would have denied their dominion, spit upon their twisting hands and swiveling pawns, unleashed wrath and fury as they were played for puppets and fools, marionettes bending to the will, to the elation, to the joy and exuberance of other, worthless beings. Now a chilling, avaricious blend of unattainable, unapproachable regime, he coiled naught passionate for their motives and rationales, attempted to live through their anarchy, then equip his own harpoons, rapiers, and cutlasses to sever the rest of the world.
But Loth’s perturbed notion at not being seen, at not being recognized, would be a lesson in strength. Perhaps she was not ready to be seen as anything worth noting (to which Deimos would forever disagree; light of his life), for the gods to grant her caustic grins and hedonistic smirks, heretic dreams and grasping nightmares. For that, he remained grateful – because then they wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t drain her, wouldn’t scar or maim her until portended, foreshadowed arms and munitions beat a cascading drum of might. The winter King’s features, usually impassive, reticent, withdrawn and empty, with only the iron slate of his eyes resting upon an individual to insist his malice, his animosity, cast shades of the father he once knew; supportive, resolute, tenacious and formidable. He lowered his muzzle for a few moments, allowed it to touch and caress the eager, lapping brine, moving it swiftly to cast a few drops of the salty water over his daughter, splashed by an element her mother represented so well, longing to wipe and wash away the frown embedded between her brows. His voice followed, pensive and speculating, chiseled, sculpted, molded for purpose and conjectures. “The mirror is a vessel of the God of Time. It has many uses and intentions, but perhaps, not reflection of one’s image.” Deimos paused, collected more words, another grin curled into the left side of his lips, boyish tendencies revived again in the essence of his daughter. “Even one as lovely as yours.”
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