the Rift


[OPEN] dead bodies, starving wolves

Ghost the Cadaverous Posts: 219
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16hh :: 6 years HP: 67 | Buff: ENDURE
Fantôme :: Grey Wolf :: None imi
#1
Damn the pigs who dare put you down
For the will to push on 'cross the corpse-laden ground!


From the Deep Forest she had traveled further south, crossing the Thistle Meadow and eventually finding herself in a marsh land that appealed to her more nefarious musings. Eager hooves sought and found the sludge ridden pathway littered with dead looking grasses and clumps of dry mud where the sun found purchase, water fit only for a corpse. It was a sickening colour and bubbled beside her as what looked like bodily remains were limp at it's bottom. She wondered if that zombie foal had risen from here, the one she had met up on the steppe, or perhaps he was a special case all on his own. Ghost smiled a creepy twisted smile, it was in places like this that she could probably hide from the world, not many would travel to such a dreary and depressing place, for those who did surely they were worth talking to? They'd gone out of their way to see more of a damp haunted place, perhaps only the monsters came here and she rather liked the prospect of that.

The mare halted on a wider part of the path and frowned. Wasn't she meant to be finding this Asylum? Surely they were not to be found in here and really she ought to introduce herself to the group she had decided to impose upon. Seele, the leader, that's what Vulture had called her. Intriguing indeed. Yet, Ghost would find out no more if she didn't stop this dawdling, but try as she might the mare was not satisfied until she had seen the whole of the marsh, pressing on into a walk once again.

Her mind was captivated by the more gruesome looking deaths that lurked in the water, she tried to imagine how they'd died, igniting her soul briefly in a thrilling fire. Death was interesting, life was not. In Ghost's opinion at least. She knew mother would share her views, a rare occasion where they might actually agree with one another, but truly it would be a nightmare if the little grey menace was to show up here. Maybe then Ghost would be more inspired to leave. She had no idea what her mother was up to right now, probably harassing some poor soul or skewering a beating heart because the owner of it 'pissed her off'. Ghost did not mind the death dealing business, but she preferred to have more of a purpose when she decided to take that which was not rightfully hers.

The sun began to set in the sky causing the mare to glance towards it and frown, knowing that really she should be moving on and finding some shelter, but intrigue had long claws that tightened it's grasp. She laughed quietly to herself knowing that she was already too drawn to this place, longing to see the picture night painted on this delightfully dreadful graveyard for restless lost souls.

Let the heat of the sun
Reignite your memory
Because if we just turn and run
Let them fire the gun

❚ Force permitted, just don't kill her :3
❚ Please tag me!
❚ Pixel by Nyte

Ricochet the Incendiary Posts: 133
Deceased
Stallion :: Equine :: 15.2 hands :: 5 years Buff: BULK
Blu
#2


He didn’t mind the corpses. They were dead, after all; for their swollen limbs and rotted eyes, bloated chests, snapped wings, and broken horns, they could not touch him. Their hearts had long stopped beating inside their putrid chests, their lungs no longer breathing. What worried him was the mud. The sickly brown water, covered with a film of greasy black, chewed ravenously at the shore with teeth made out of little lapping waves, turning the grasses brittle, yellow and dead. It turned good earth into seeping black mud, which sucked ceaselessly at his hooves, holding him even as he tore himself away. Sticky globs of brown splattered his chest, his legs, even matted in his tail; and it was not by any means a good conductor of his magic. There was no dust here.

Everything here was damp and frigid, the kind of impenetrable cold that even the Tallsun heat couldn’t warm- but now it was autumn, and the wet cold cut to the very bone. The Incendiary did not want to imagine this rotting cesspit when caught between the worst of winter’s fangs.

Ricochet lashed his tail in a futile attempt to get rid of the mud clinging to the long strands of black hair, flicked his hooves before he stepped down with them, but his efforts were foiled again and again. At last succumbing to the inevitable mud that devoured his buttermilk skin with voracious appetite, the stallion ventured deeper into this eerie world of skeletal trees and stagnant waters. Not far ahead of him, Guns moved, more subdued than usual. He moved with his head low and tail down, enjoying the marsh no more than his master.

“By Nieque’s beard,” the stallion muttered, quickening forwards, teal eyes glancing upwards. Ahead, beyond a veil of silver mist, he can see a figure dark and lean and small, a wraith.

With any luck, it was some sort of black-hearted villain or zombie, and he could kill it. But it was not; it was a mare, with wings bleeding crimson and white, eyes dark as night, an obsidian horn curling proud from her forehead. She was the worst of the worst, the spawn produced by the unholy union of unicorn and pegasus. Whenever he crossed paths with one of them- a hybrid so hideously twisted and wrong- he couldn’t help but wonder if they were sent for deliverance from the blasphemous mistakes of their parents. As far as Ricochet knew, Cinnoru and Sepagus upheld the racial laws for each of their own species (they were still not near as powerful as Nieque, however) and so a hybrid was not only unnatural, but born only out of oath-breakers and traitors to their own kind.

He halts, brow furrowing, lips curling into a crude sneer, the scarred side of his face cast into long shadow. At his forehooves his collie stops, cocking his head at an eerie angle.

“Wouldn’t you look at this…” Ricochet mutters, beneath his breath. In all honesty, he wasn’t really sure of what witty insult that he could call a hybrid that wouldn’t sound weak. Skyrat, hornheads, birdbones, featherbrains… he knew names for them all, cruel names, funny names, insults and taunts and curses.

But he didn’t know what to call this black mare, this, this, something that didn’t have a name. “Freak,” he says louder, teal eyes flicking upwards to meet her onyx ones. “Such a fucking mutant.”



Could we say this happened Orangemoon if that's okay? :3


HP: 49.5
We want you for the Equine Empire.

Epona Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#3

Epona
~No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold
Nothing satisfies me but your soul~





This land captured the mare. It was as if the murky ground had trapped her soul in its grisly hands, refusing to let her leave its gruesomely beautiful horizon. The shadowed screams that lurked below the undertones of the wind lulled the mare into a calm. Oh how she loved the death that permeated this place. In truth this land resembled what the mare believed her soul would look like. Old and worn. Broken trees growing from the ground. The ground so murky and forlorn that one could easily get stuck in its snares. It was the perfect resemblance, and it captivated Epona, made her long to spend hours upon hours in the magical place. And so she did. Her day had been spent surveying the land, exploring much like a young filly would. The day had worn on over her proud head; the sun’s light succumbing to glorious night. The small pathway that had once provided Epona with comfortable steps was now sunken below the muddy water, but the mare did not truly mind this. The girl liked the challenge of trudging along the murk, it gave her muscles a bitter burn; one that the mare reveled in. Along this destitute ground lay the littering bodies of equines that were too weak to survive. The beast stepped over what seemed like hundreds of broken bodies, all fitting together like a devilish puzzle. This land was not prejudice; it took one breed just as easy as the rest. Here laid the worn wing of a Pegasus, their feathers becoming tangled and torn apart by the roots of trees, the wings cracked into unimaginable positions. Next the mare gracefully lurched over the bloated body of a unicorn. His eyes had sunken into none existence. His horn was torn from his body, floating in the murk only a few inches away from his now raw forehead. Then came a normal equine, one without the appendages of a horn or wings. This beast’s two front legs snapped in opposite directions, his maw still curled up in a scream. Epona allowed a wicked laughter to bubble from her frame. These poor beasts. All gone before what they believed to be their time. All believing that they were strong enough to survive the permeating hand of Death that covered this land. But Death held his secrets, never allowed one to know when their time was up. The proud must have been his favorite targets. They believed that nothing could defeat them, and so death had the pleasure of ripping such a notion from their thoughts; just before he ripped their lives from their souls. The girl’s laughter seemed to echo over the empty world, jumping from one tree to the next.

Then something caught the mare’s attention. There was an ebony form emerging from the bog before her. It was easily known as real, no dead thing that Epona had ever come across stood straight up and moved their long legs. As Epona trudged forward to the creature she found it to be a mare, one who seemed younger than the beast. Though she was young her height caught up to Epona, a trait that very rarely fell upon any equine. Upon the beast’s proud head twirled a long horn. Upon her shoulders hung two beautifully painted wings. The youngster’s eyes were painted a deep coal. The mare smiled to herself, there was something about this beast. A haunted appearance that brought the younger mare to Epona’s attention, that coupled with the mare’s love of any creature that fit the definition of young caused the mare to smile slightly towards the unknown creature. But as Epona’s hooves landed only a few feet away from the mare a sound caught her attention. Close to the now grouped mares stood a stallion with a grizzly burn placed upon his face. Anger boiled obviously under his façade, an aggression that Epona did not understand but would in no way tolerate. The stallion spit words towards the ebony mare, about how she was a freak; a mutant. At these names Epona dipped her ears back to her neck, a snarl ripping down her lips. She would not tolerate prejudice around herself. The mare had heard of the hatred between nations. How the Unicorns, Pegasus, and Equine all hated one another with a passion. Epona lived in a land that would only accept Unicorns. But that in no way meant she held any kind of hatred for the other breeds. Any type of equine was worthy of respect if they so deserved it, so far the ebony creature had done nothing to receive such vicious words. The only one worthy of speaking lowly of was the stallion. ”Tsk. Sir, one would do good to hold their tongue. Only a fool speaks ill of one he has no notion of.” Her words were icy cold, emotionless eyes looking down upon his smaller form. He was unworthy of her and the mare was not afraid to show it. Once the tiny speech was over Epona turned to the younger mare, an eyebrow raised gently. With a gentle movement the mare’s head dipped in a bow, a sign of respect the mare hardly ever gave away. ”My calling is Epona. I will apologize on behalf of this oafish brute. Stallions believe they can throw their words around without using what small brains they are granted. Do not hold his stupidity against his kind or the inhabitants here of Hellovia.”




[admin edit: I fixed your table for you!]

Circuta Posts: 100
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 7 Buff: NOVICE
Rhawon :: Siberian Tiger :: None aeolle
#4
Affront and insolence bring forth the listening hark's of the dead, and no sooner then the Lady of the Blue had spoken, a shade moves forward
from the depths of the Marsh, refinement and splendor burning as candlelight in the midst of a cavern. Keen and barbed violet's judge upon teal and buttermilk with chastisement and wafts of animosity, for how foolish is he whom steps foot upon Asylum land and offends those who come with wide gazes and opened arms, for whom has given him the right to lay down law upon the House of the Asylum? "Unintelligent."

The woman ignores the man now with the pose and grace of one whom has no time for the moronic, the senseless, has no time for that which
insults with such ease and lack of point. He is harsh and brutish, and she, is diplomatic and poisoned sweet, opposing forces that collide with such
force that it leaves her with a sour, bitter taste in her maw.
A curving of a lean, defined neck to gaze upon that whom has defended and that who has been targeted, one of the sea, brine, with the jut of her species upon her dome, and the next a woman of onyx and wine, cream and charcoal. The softest of smiles is placed upon them, apologetic, and careful words escape her maw in lyrics.
"Not all men are as daft as this imbecile. I digress, however, for you are well said. Thank you for coming to this woman's defense, Celtic Goddess." A offering of kindness is then placed upon the onyx woman, the shortest of pauses between her speech to the Celtic one, and the unnamed.
"You are splendid, my dear. Pay no mind to this repulsive, drunken swine. He seems to lack a great deal of manners."

A bowed dome, not in violence, but in greetings is given to them both, old-fashioned as the Temptress may be with her
gestures and ways. "I am Circuta. My family lives in this Marsh." A glance of disdain of the highest regards is given to the buttermilk brute,
disgust and mockery of his irresponsible ways showing from under dark lashes. "I would silence your tongue here, boy, lest you wish to meet them
and your grave in these watery depths. The ghast's and demons beneath the murky surface do not approve of arrogant strangers within their homeland.
"
And neither do I, her tone seems to suggest, a distant stare settling upon him. If he makes a move, she shall call forth her brethren. She is certain the great oaf (and she thinks this with affection), Plaguebearer, and the equine-eating woman Fox shall adore to feast upon his bones.
The choice is up to him.

The Temptress, after all, thinks that he may prove to be a good decoration for the Season, and the cream
coat upon his sinew shall prove to be a good wrapper upon her flesh.



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

Ghost the Cadaverous Posts: 219
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16hh :: 6 years HP: 67 | Buff: ENDURE
Fantôme :: Grey Wolf :: None imi
#5
Damn the pigs who dare put you down
For the will to push on 'cross the corpse-laden ground!


Alert and alive, much more than she could say for the souls festering around her, she shifts and turns her attention to the oncoming stranger. Sturdy onyx limbs remain planted into the mucky ground, her demeanour unchanging as he halts, cold black eyes watching the sneer snake it's way onto his ugly scarred mug. The evil lips turn words of taunt and condemnation, words she'd heard before, words her own mother had enjoyed calling her. She grimaces, enduring this absurd equine's dribble of attempted torment, yet on another level, she rather enjoys it. For some reason she was a 'mutant' to this ill spoken equine, perhaps just her appearance gets under his skin, and Ghost enjoys the satisfaction. Did he come just to throw insults? Or did he come for more sinister reasons? Her gaze drops to the monochrome collie dog, feeling her skin prickle in fear of those teeth bound to be lining the jaw behind deceiving soft lips, for a moment Ghost shuts her eyes to enjoy the exhilaration before reopening them to concentrate.

However, her turn to retort was not just yet as she is defended by a stranger. A horned mare coated in faded blue and patches of snow, her voice was reprimanding and icy towards the hornless stud before she turned to Ghost and introduced herself as Epona. For the first time surprise wormed it's way onto Ghost's face, insults and torments she could deal with, but for someone to speak out on her side. Never. The belle controls herself, still a frown upon her features, but happily, she did not reject the mare who spoke out in defence of her. Instead she fumbled with finding the right words, the situation now thrown into something totally bizarre for the young girl who had only ever known to rely on herself. "These occurrences are not foreign to me, I know very well, Epona, that there are only a few here that think in such simple ways." She found strength in her voice eventually and smiled sweetly at the dunskin burnt face. Time to move her first pawn in this game of gambling words.

Circuta showed the elegant curve of her white blotched face that came free with snapping words and soothing lines of comfort. Ghost returns the smile and nods her head, but says nothing for a moment; Ghost was already well aware of how splendid she was after all. As her superior offers swamp life to their little guest, the sprite flexes her feathered appendages, admiring how the red clashes with the purest white before silence fell and she found her ghastly voice once again. "Not even the demons of the marsh deserve that face, though should he continue to speak to me as if I am somehow inferior then I perhaps should correct him. We can just severe his head and dump the body."

The coin was flipped, the gamble was set.

Your turn golden boy.

Let the heat of the sun
Reignite your memory
Because if we just turn and run
Let them fire the gun

❚ Force permitted, just don't kill her :3
❚ Please tag me!
❚ Pixel by Nyte

Ricochet the Incendiary Posts: 133
Deceased
Stallion :: Equine :: 15.2 hands :: 5 years Buff: BULK
Blu
#6


He is itching with contempt, crawling with revulsion, literally feeling as if he is choking on his anger, the thud of his heart beating rapidly on his ribcage, quickening his breathing rate until his breaths are heavy and ragged despite having not moved an inch. It is swallowing him, constricting his throat, clutching his heart, twisting his ears, a horsefly just out of reach. This anger, so raw, so hungry, so predatory, comes into being unconsciously, and he burns with it, his teal eyes on fire with the rage and passion that consumes, the very same that drove him after the black mare with her charcoal wings.

It is this energy that is so close to devouring him, an all-consuming flame that would often drive him to attack, that Ricochet forces down. He gulps it back, and it is thick and mutinous, tasting foul as a mouthful of greasy feathers, and with the effort of a drowning man breathes, until it fades.

For the first time he can remember, he has controlled his temper.
Still, he sizes her up. Even being a touch taller than him, she is graceful and willow thin, a lick of black fur and red feathers, with great, long-lashed dark eyes and swooping, subtle curves to her body. If it came to a fight, the Incendiary had no doubt he would have the advantage, with his hard, muscle-bound body and brawny hindquarters- and not to mention the emotion, vehemence and ferocity which gave each raw movement belief and power, which she would certainly lack with her vacant eyes and cold mouth.

But it is not this dainty mare of hideous descent that speaks, but a mare cloaked in rolling mist and white shadow, hidden by the black wraith’s rump. Ricochet’s head jerks upwards in surprise, a rough, abrupt movement that makes his neck ache sullenly. Damnable dog, not giving me warning. Too late, Guns gives a low rumble, the sound muted by the cold dank air which settles over the world.

This newcomer is painted with pale blues and frosted hairs, a subdued array of ice and cold, and mocks him with her tones. His gaze is unreadable, even as his eyes darken, and continuing his unusual streak of thoughtfulness, he holds his tongue and stews silently.

Just as his buttermilk jaw parts to share his divine wisdom, yet another comes to join the party, and Ricochet’s harks flick. Unintelligent. It is this voice, cool and careless, that warms his chilled body. This is the one who would be worth the fight. This woman, dark and sleek and crowned with a horn cut from ebony, is the one who would be the real threat, with the sleek oil of her obsidian coat rippling over lithe muscle, the glint of indigo in her eyes. He is scarred and worn, a warrior well-beaten, one who has learned value of defeat as well as victory, all while retaining his supremacy, keeping his authority, holding onto his vanity. Her, speckled with alabaster, smooth-skinned like a babe, with her poise, her slippery wily tongue, she is dangerous in a different kind of way, a way with words instead of hooves, sentences instead of muscles.

Circuta. It is a word bristling with electricity, and if only she were not with an alicorn- but he shrugs his creamy golden shoulder. Why wish for what is not possible?

Sinister threats, gilded words- he has heard them all, and fought them all. Too many to count have whispered promises of deaths into his ears, and yet here he is with his livid beating heart and scarred face, still breathing, still detestable, ugly, and somehow handsome as always. Surrounded by the dead and those with frozen souls, he is burning with hot red fire.

They are all beasts, sickening and despicable.

“There are many who would wish I were dead, but here I am with my soul intact and my dick too.” So get in line, fuckers. The boy inside him, so very alive, wants to throw out more retorts, to tell them naughty things. The man in him wants to rid the world of their taint- but his rationality warns him to remove himself from the situation.

Ricochet turns, and Guns gives another soft growl, and together they vanish into the marshlands, headed away from the fucking mutants who reside within. Next time, he will remember he should only come here with Dragomir in tow, for when they feel up for hunting.

Hunting ghosts and Circutas.



Ricochet out.


HP: 49.5
We want you for the Equine Empire.


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