& IF THE MEN IN WHITE COATS ARE COMING
I KNOW YOU WILL STILL BE THERE FOR ME
TO CHASE DOWN THE WOLVES AROUND US..

It was time for Giselle to return back to the Basin, back to the reign of her sister. It was time for them both to take the glory; it was time for them to finally wage the war on the skyrats. Nasty, dirty, repugnant sky dwellers, they needed to be eradicated. She had lost her way for a while, and had decided to take some time out to find herself. It disgusted her really, this show of weakness, her lack of conviction, but for whatever reason, she had needed it. But now she was back, and more ready than ever to stand by her sisters’ side and fight. After all, family was everything; blood ran thicker than water and all that.

If she was honest, she had waited far too long to uphold her fathers’ legacy, she had sworn to him that his wishes would be carried out and yet it still hadn’t happened, or even come close. Perhaps Pysche had gone ahead without her during her absence, which would piss her off, as she would have missed all the action, she would have missed the glory. But she would be proud of Pysche and where honour was due, she would give it.

She pushed on through the lands of Helovia, picking up speed as she approached the basin. She was excited, yet a little apprehensive of what and who would greet her and how they would treat her return, for was she technically a deserter, and she knew how she would treat someone who had deserted their family and their cause. She could only hope her sister would have a little more mercy. If not, she would just have to prove how true she was to the Basin and its mission, or she would just have to take what was coming to her. Either way, she was ready for her consequences.

Besides, her bloodlust was raging. On her travels she had only found a few scrawny equines to feed her cravings, and they had barely touched the sides. She needed some real blood spill, a physical kill, only a skyrat would sate her right now. She could only hope the Basin still held true, still had the same morals, the same belief system that they had when she had deserted them.

Finally, she crossed the border into her homeland. But wait, there was something wrong here. The scent of her sister, the Empress, was seriously weak. It was barely tangible, like she hadn’t been here in weeks. This wasn’t right, what had happened here? Had Psyche been usurped? That couldn’t be. She was surely just out on a mission, perhaps infiltrating into the sky dwellers herdlands. That had to be what was going on. There was no other explanation.

She decided to make her presence known. She had to take the risk to find out what was going on. She just had to hope that she didn’t have to pay too much of a price for her abandonment. She shouldn’t have to, she was sister to the Empress after all, and a warrior for the Basin in her own right.
She stomped her hooves in impatience and let her lyrics twist their way through the air;
“Good Morning, all you Basiners. I am sorry that I absconded from our ranks. But I am back now, and would very much like to see my sister, our Empress. I would like to know what has happened during my absence. Is there anyone who can point me in her direction?” That should get her what she wanted. She waited impatiently for someone to tell her what on earth was going on here, and where her sister was.

" "
615 words.

The Reaper’s reclusive nature was under threat by his newfound reign. Where he commonly reveled in shadows, in the decadence of the unknown, in the veil and pinnacles of enigmas, labyrinths and sequestered damnation, he was now constantly forced to respond to creatures loitering and lingering amongst the Basin. Under his General circumstances, he would have disappeared further into the dusk, into the copses of midnight corridors, nocturnal parlors, not seen amongst the valley’s outstretched courtyards, into the mist, into the void, death simmering and smoldering upon the edges of its satanic calamity. His pernicious poise, his vicious, virulent haze, would appear upon stretches of animosity, where trespassing hordes tainted the borders of their treacherous kingdom, when he was training his fractured soldiers and splintered army. Over the last few passing days, he’d been spun into diplomacy, woven into a crown, tossed upon a throne, and concocted more words than he’d ever thought he could speak in one setting, one sitting. The sheen of sovereignty was unsettling, perturbing, ruffling the arcane, reticent chords of his rapier machinations, twisting and distorting the whims of violence into the nefarious arts of restoration; for, despite the grim flaws enameled and lacquered to his figure, to his soul, to his infidel frame, the loyalty to his land was tangible, corporeal, perceptible. Battle hymns and ferocious bedlam, monstrosity and barbarity, intertwined with the devilish opus of his predacious requiems, delved and dove into the plunge and plummet of kings, monarchs and rulers, promising growth, yearning for power, for domination, for supremacy, over the worlds continuing to smite them.

Another beast slunk into the carnivorous pursuits of their land, and he followed the call, the scent, tinged with the barest familiarity. Ghostly, phantasmal, spectral, sinuous steps plagued the entrails of their rim, slunk into the slithering condemnation of his deleterious severity until his piercing stare captured the femme haunting their halls. The hue was another call to his memories, to images of a battlefield, locked in the web of attempting to protect what was theirs, watching as it was pried from their grasp, as it slipped from their gnarled fingers, as they were sent into the frozen wilds and he became winter again. However, a name escaped him, and his stoic, recherché reserve revealed naught of his confusion, stony, marbled, sculpture of Ares in his composed aperture, dreaming of avaricious plumes and covetous war, mercenary brushstrokes and catastrophic crusades. Deimos listened as she spelled out her pursuits into the air, and wondered over another portended, augured fit, casting his heralding into the dirt as the GildedBlade had done, ignorant and unware of unwinding circumstances. His abilities, his prowess, his status and actions gave far more eloquence, far more allegiance, to the tumbling affairs of the Basin and its command. Sliding before the mare, chiseled monolith and impassive cretin, he bestowed the icy, candor of the truth. “Psyche has left.” Would she be another shrieking mare, demanding, commanding, the essence of the Empress’s disappearance, lost and forlorn, abandoning her harem after a disappointing failure upon the battlefield? Or would she accept the loss, search for her sibling off into the distance, flicker and fade in the same way?

& IF THE MEN IN WHITE COATS ARE COMING
I KNOW YOU WILL STILL BE THERE FOR ME
TO CHASE DOWN THE WOLVES AROUND US..

She had been waiting there, standing on the ground that she had once called her home for a while now. It gave her time to think, to try and figure out why Pysches scent was so weak on the borders of what should be her kingdom. As much as Giselle hoped that there was a simple explanation, it was slowly dawning on her that it wasn’t very likely. She had a feeling of dread sneaking up through her frame that something drastic had changed here. She wondered what she would choose. Whether to stand by her sister, to go forth alone to find her, to ensure family conquered all, or to stay within the Basin, where the numbers were strong, and glory was much more likely. She supposed it would all depend on where her sister was now, and what had transpired to push her from her throne. As little as she really cared for her sibling, Giselle still hoped that she was alive. If only to hunt her down and demand an explanation, an explanation as to why she had thrown away a seat of power that would have been so advantageous to their goal. The internal battle that was waging within her dial raged on, the decision wasn’t an easy one. Family or exaltation?

She paused in her inner dialogue as the notes of another approaching entered her nostrils. It was a strong, heady, testosterone heavy scent, one of a vaguely familiar stag. She shifted her position and stood up tall. Just because she might recognise this scent, one couldn’t be too careful, especially when she had no idea what state this herd was currently in. Finally, a obsidian hued form pulled itself from the shadows. As he approached she looked him over. He didn’t look one for small talk, he looked like he was better suited to staying in the shadows, it was the look in his eyes. One of slight annoyance in his duties, perhaps he had been forced to step up the political ladder further than he would have liked. There was something familiar about him, like she had possibly met him before, or perhaps it was just wishful thinking. So much had changed, that she wanted something to cling on to. She had thought she was returning to a sure thing after all, with Pysche still the Empress and for everything to have stood still in her absence.

His lyrics cut through the air like a knife, ice cold and stony, emotionless as he stated the facts and nothing more. Pysche had gone, just as she thought. Now all that was left was to decide how she was going to deal with this fact. Was family really all that important, or should she just cast her aside as the Basin seemed to have done? Or she should she be outraged for Pysche, turn on her tail and hunt her down? To set right the injustice, strong as the bonds of siblings? It was a difficult one, as Giselle as a rule didn’t see any need for companionship from others or forming any strong attachments. But the blood thing had never quite been set right in her mind, she could never quite understand if she owed her sister anything. To be selfless, or to be selfish? She guessed that was the very question of the moment. To make this choice, she needed more facts from this cold fish of a stag. “Greetings stranger. Pray, if you don’t mind, I would like to know what has happened to the Empress, my sister? Why is she no longer here? And if I am not prying, tell me, are you the one who has stepped up to her place?” She didn’t honestly care if he was the usurper, it wasn’t her to play around in the games of politics. It didn’t leave enough time to spill the blood of the un-pure..

" "
649 words.

Political ploys, consul and diplomatic queries had never been his fortitude, too shackled, too locked in the haunting resonance of his nefarious exploitations, his ferocious yearnings, his diabolical trends. While the crown was not yet comforting or settled upon his skull, he’d taken to the duty, held the scepter beside his scythe, woven reticent features into regal apertures, where the indifferent shards of his eyes could behold the withering armaments of his enemies, the quivering ineptitude of cowards, and the strong, stalwart, staunch valor of his constituents, comrades, and companions. The beast was relieved the unknown femme didn’t explode with shocking derision, with lamenting, quaking, shuddering requiems and dirges; for the cretin had no part in offering comfort or solace, and likely would have been forced into curling, coiling animosity again. She didn’t screech for her sister’s frame, she didn’t shout or bawl for the inhumanity of a usurped monarch, she didn’t treble or wane in fortitude at his news. Instead, she appeared to contemplate the next torrent of her actions: to fade and wither back towards the unknown, to embark upon a journey of vengeance, or to stay, linger, loiter in the familiarity of their treacherous duplicity, of their heralded fortunes and restoring purpose. The calm, composed sentiments provided a moment or two to reflect, to collect, to settle the parts and positions of the swift course of occurrences taken place over a matter of days. The Reaper reflected on the state of his deeds, the callous, cool indifference towards the Empress who’d led them from their icy threshold into mighty, brutal hazes, aided in her triumphs, in her conquests, and then watched, witnessed, as she slid into upheaval and ruin. The calling out of her failures, and others who’d followed suit, had culminated in a fiery bombardment of frustration – Ulrik the Engineer unwinding from his apathy and into molten rage, the infernal vexation of a venomous asp tired, deluded, caving in as wounds reopened and festered. Then, Psyche has given it all away.

His jaw clenched, once, twice, and his piercing gaze wandered towards the mountains, the peaks and valleys of his empire, his kingdom, and the world beyond, the territories and loams he longed to ignite, unravel, for the sake of glory and conquest. The Empress had tried, had attempted, and when she faltered, her body folded into the cracks and crevasses, shadows and disappointments swallowing her whole. Would the same happen to him, if he could not provide the aims, the wishes, the ambitions of their trenchant, mordant horizons? He glanced back towards the nameless mare, permitted the rough grate of his voice to flow into the hallowed grounds once more. “After her failure in an invasion, another asked her to vacate the throne.” And she had, a rancorous, bitter shell and shamble of her former self, taken to the shadows and the unknown. The impassive cords of his face remained, still, resolute, unrelenting in their merciless, bestial bombardments as the truth continued to be unveiled from his mouth. “I am unaware of her location.” Chastened, subdued, but never by his motions or movements, she’d been driven elsewhere, and as a distinguished, hardened mare, he was assured she remained just as treacherous, just as snakelike and coveting as before, mending the broken eaves of her resignation. Finally, he permitted a brief introduction. “The other one gave the crown to me. I am Deimos.” He twisted his head for a moment, emboldened by the length of curiosity, by the familiarity, not by blood, but by the bonded garbs of former ousted citizens, living on fringes of glaciers and caverns. “You fought with us in the Edge.”