"Where brilliance is good and madness is better..."
Helovia Info
Helovia opened in February 2012! We are an active fantasy equine RPG
Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.
Site Wide Plots
Kaos :: The Beginning of the End ☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.
Kisamoa :: A New Kind of Kaos ☼ - 3/2017 - Kisamoa asks Helovians to help him restore the Spectral Marsh. Which side will you choose?
Invasions :: All Out War ☼ - 5/2/16 - New layout and the brand new invasion rules are up! Thank you for your patience and we look forward to getting started with this new adventure.
The Rift :: Gods Do Die ☼ - 8/2015 - Helovia Gods are saving the Rift from corrupt gods! Can Helovians band together against these foreign deities?
The Literal Ship ☼ - 2/8/15 - Oh no! You have to pair up for Valentine's day!
Sky Island :: Murder ☼ - 10/25/14 - Vesta has been found dead on the island, and the gods have called to you to solve the murder!
Sky Island :: Peace ☼ - 7/7/14 - An island has appeared in the sky! Clouds carry Helovians from the Veins to the sky.
Restoration :: We Welcome the Dawn ☼ - 9/21/13 - The sun has finally risen on this day, giving the land new light, but the Time God and the Sun God have yet to be seen.
Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot ☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.
☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.
Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot ☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.
Doppleganger Plot ☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.
ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.
Cotm
Character of the Month for
June, 2017
WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!
Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.
08-28-2013, 12:46 AM (This post was last modified: 10-02-2013, 07:50 PM by October.)
mongrel mind.
The meadows unfold before me like gently nestled bird wings sloping off a turkey's back. I have an urge to pluck the shafts from the avian landscape, and a deep set fascination to solve - just how many feathers can a bird lose before it no longer flies? Let's pick a few then toss it up to find out.
So it is I move forward, lips brushing the carcass of the earth, so withered in this lack of light, in search for feathers to appease my appetite. Unfortunately this one only sates that of my physical needs. Perhaps once my gluttony is abated I can find a true bird. What I manage to graze on is tough and unappealing, though a poke or two from a thistle later sets my tongue bleeding and suddenly the flavors are greatly improved. I must be sure to season my diet with myself more often.
Eventually the monotony of eating grows dull and my tongue scabs over, forcing me to seek other avenues for expending my mortal existence. I discern that satiating thirst is a generally good option following a dry meal, though I don't truly recognize the need, it is not the first time I seem unable. Does a bird recognize the need to fly, or does it just open up its wings?
I have no wings, but I open up my mouth amid the flow of the nearest stream. It washes down my gullet in large pulls that tremble down my throat with every swallow. I watch as I guzzle the dance of unnatural light upon the water's top. Vibrant blues and Fluorescent greens twirl in the ripples my wriggling lips cause, providing a distorted heartbeat of light upon the river. It occurs to me then that the light, sourced from the bizarre new trees that seem more like a fungus growth, are as natural as anything. It is an instinct to deem them not simply because they are strange and new, but it is from the earth they have taken root and to the sky they stretch, same as any foliage.
Who am I to call something unnatural?
Who are you?
// Baby d o l l I recognize
// you're a hideous thing inside
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Once more, the moon had risen in the sky, and once more Murdock had risen to meet it. He felt lost if he was not close to its light, for it was the only light save the curious ‘lanterns’ that had appeared within the trees. Taking flight from the floor of the valley in the Foothills, he had blindly set a course south, following nothing but curiosity and running only from his boredom. Too often he had gone north to explore the Heavenly Fields or the bleak expanse of the Steppe. But not tonight. Now, he would see what wonders the south of Helovia held for him.
He touched down lightly upon a bed of curled grass in the Meadow, wearily letting his weight fall onto the soles of his hooves. The earth was soft and damp beneath his feet, but it did little so soothe the ache in his legs. How long had he stood on the stone edge of his cliff? How long had he looked out into the darkness waiting for a hint of light to break the mask of black? Far too long. His vigil had gone unrewarded, save the tree-lights that haunted him with their blank stares of pale blue, and the moon that gazed down at him like a bright, pupil-less eye. And now, he was done with waiting. He was done expecting the light would come to him. He would just have to go find it.
Evidently, it was not in the Thistle Meadow. In fact, there was little in the meadow save the hollow song of the wind through the skeletal branches of trees and the silence left in the absence of songbirds. It was a change of scenery, though, and perhaps that's all he needed to smooth the folds in his sanity and set his head straight. He had spent what felt like an eternity within the shadows of the Foothills, lingering beneath the mountains and catching glimpses of the moon as he walked beneath the trees. There was little left there for him now, though. Everyone had left.
This empty field held just as much promise as the ‘home’ he had left behind. However, he was not satisfied with what he saw quite yet; there had to be more than just wilted grass and glowing fungus here. A few swaying steps forward lead him to the bubbling edge of a stream, which trailed off into the shadows beneath the glowing eyes that hung in the branches. Casually, he stepped into it, feeling the cold sting of the water as he sunk up to his fetlocks in the soft streambed.
He welcomed the numbing coolness, gritting his teeth as the water swelled up around his knees and gently lapped at his belly the further he stepped into it. He raised his wings away from the water, holding them poised at his sides as if afraid to get them wet. The fluorescent tips of his feathers reflected upon the subtle ripples in the stream’s surface as he walked, the liquid parting about his body as he pushed against the current. The pain that he felt was oddly satisfying as he gradually lost feeling in his limbs, violent shivers causing his muscles to tremble.
He was completely absorbed in his mindless task, his gaze downcast and focused on the faint light of his hooves through the darkness of the water. He did not notice, nor did he care to notice, the presence of someone else alongside the stream’s edge, until he stood before the strange creature. He caught sight of a pair of dark hooves out of the corner of his eye, and with a lopsided smile he raised his head to look at her. His smile does not last long, however, and quickly it fades from his lips.
He studied her face in silence for a moment, taking in her striking amber eyes and sharp features. For a second, he forgets the searing cold that swarms his lower body, and his manners disappear from his mind along with it. At first glance, she would appear plain and unremarkable, but his gaze is moved to the curve of her lips. The line of her mouth is not smooth nor straight, but jagged like the teeth of a monster. His mouth opens, but all that escapes from it is a trembling breath.
“Good evening,” he begins slowly, dipping his head politely and drawing his gaze away from her mouth. “Or, perhaps it is morning. One can never tell these days,” he laughs slightly, but his voice trembles as his muscles quiver. The bank of the stream to his right is steep and muddy, but where she stands it is shallow and dry. He considers remaining in the stream, not wanting to shoulder past her, but he fears if he stands in the water much longer he will turn to ice. “Excuse me,” he mutters softly, stepping forward and pulling himself into the cool air, though he can hardly feel the movement of his legs.
Unbalanced and shivering, he lowers the down of his wings against his sides and spreads his feathers out to shield his body from the gentle breeze. He turns to face her, shaking the droplets of water from the curls of his mane as liquid streams down his legs. “It was colder than I had expected,” he shrugged slightly, nodding toward the water. “Never been one for swimming, anyways”. Thankfully, most of the chill had been removed from the air with the arrival of Birdsong, but in the absence of sunlight, it still held little warmth. “What’s your name?” He asked, hoping the semblance of a normal conversation would mask his insanity.
"talk talk talk"
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
Fate has a way of delivering to us that which we need. It may not always be what we think we need, but we often want what we do not need. This time however, Fate and I are in agreement as to what i need - a neat, little, bird.
An ear revolves on my cranium like the oiled mechanism of a gun chamber, dangerous if but in part - we fear the trigger, but what of that which the trigger connects to?
The danger in my ear is neither the trigger nor the bullets laid within, but that with my ear, I have found him. I have found my little bird. He wades through the muck and the mire of the stream and the dark, delivered to me with everything but a bow.
Pity, I would have enjoyed a bow.
He comes just in time too, as the thirst I figured I had has been slaked. I am lifting my head just as his eyes find me, stabbing through the night. Water drips from my muzzle and falls back into the stream with a shiver.
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound of it crashing into itself is almost inaudible, but it's sweet in a way.
I smile, giddy with anticipation of learning. The twitch of my jagged lips, nothing near as pleasant as a smooth smile, comes just as he cuts a joke about the time of day. It may put him at ease, as smile usually do, albeit my crocodile grin can often prove more alarming than not. Either way it seems the nerves are already crawling beneath his skin, that or the cold he speaks of has him stammering so much. I had always known birds were noisy, but not to this degree. my ears slide back somewhat, trying to shelter from the raucous warbling issued from his throat.
He makes to move forward, clambering up alongside me. The nearness brings a rush to my heart and I turn my head slightly away as he mumbles a word that asks for passage, forgiveness and answers all at once. My nostrils flare as breath comes in great sheets, a train barreling down an icy track that exhales its exhaust endlessly. My eyes widen, the white dancing with the orange like a melted popsicle, the kind with the cream in the center.
I'm panting, the blood's racing, the pupils' are spinning.
The time is now. So close.
Now.
I jerk my head around suddenly and reach out with my teeth for one of his primary feathers as he finishes passing by.
Whether he notices or not he continues with his chatter, attempting pleasantries when his discomfort is clear. I watch him under a tangled haze of wiry mane that had been disturbed by my quick movement. He makes me wonder, as others have before, why they feel a need to pretend. What social graces, or awkwardnessess as in this scenario, have shaped them to behave so oddly as to deny their true nature and want for the sake of exchanging pretty words? That he still begs for my name nearly sets me to tears of laughter, but I resists the humorous response, still focused on his feathers.
At least the bewilderment has calmed me down - the train has stopped.
He's waiting on me now though and I know I have the fill the void, although the silence is nice now that the bird stopped singing. He'll fly away though if I don't and I can't very well have him trying to fly when he still has so many feathers left. "How many?" I ask casually, tilting my head as I look to him, blatantly ignoring everything else he said.
Don't manners dictate that it's rude to ask for a name before giving one anyway?
What sort of world are these foals being raise in these days.
// Baby d o l l I recognize
// you're a hideous thing inside
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
The mare’s attempt at snatching a feather had been unsuccessful, and had also gone unnoticed on Murdock’s part. He had noted as he approached her through the stream that she was a different sort of creature. He had been met with a blank stare as he first sought her gaze and his words seemed to slip past her mind as if unregistered or simply ignored. Her mouth, of course, was yet another matter of interest. From his present place on dry land, where he stood shivering and quite uncomfortably wet, he reluctantly let his eyes settle on the jagged curve of her mouth once more.
Would it be rude to ask what happened to her? My God, what happened to your face? he could ask, donning an innocent expression to make it seem like the harmless question he wanted it to be. But that would likely not elicit a pleasant response from her. Besides, with a smile like that, he was hardly sure he wanted to risk getting on her bad side; there was no telling how such a frightful appearance had been bestowed upon her. From her blank stare to the visible bumps of her ribs, she seemed the embodiment of fear and danger.
His words, the many he spoke as he attempted to make companionable conversation, seemed to dissolve in thin air as if they had never been uttered. All he received from her was a slightly wild and almost vacant stare, her haunting amber eyes holding his gaze steadily. She was the type his mother would have told him to watch out for. Though her very appearance seemed to scream ‘bad news’, he was only drawn to her by childlike curiosity that had stuck with him through his adolescent years. No matter how many times he had been told to ‘grow up’, the suggestion had been waved off along with all the others.
His question went unanswered as well, hanging in the air like the vapor of his breath for a moment before seeming to be dismissed. She did not even pause to consider it, nor give the impression that she had given his words some thought; instead, she finally opened her mouth to speak. Her voice was not the haunting, cracking tone that one might expect from a creature of her visage, but it was smooth and somewhat eerie all the same. Murdock paused for a moment, taken aback by her question and visibly confused.
“I’m sorry, how many…what?” He asked dubiously, tipping his head to the side slightly to match her posture. Her orange gaze was fixed on his face once more, but earlier it had been focused on his wings that had remained folded at his sides, dripping icy stream water from his pale feathers. He had payed it no mind, though. Perhaps she, like many others, had been drawn to the dull green glow that radiated from the tip of each white feather. Though their interaction had so far been mainly one-sided, he had grown uneasy in her presence as if some energy in the air was telling him to run. Perhaps it was the way the shadows shrouded her sharp face, or the way the glow of the tree-lights played off her inky coat. Regardless, he swallowed the creeping fear and raised a brow, hoping she would elaborate before eating him alive with that jagged mouth of hers.
"talk talk talk"
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
My tongue rolls over the bumpy roof of my mouth. It's a sensation that causes a slight tickle, though I derive no pleasure in it for the lack of a feather rolling in-between. My gaze slides back to his wings almost of its own accord, as though my eyes have taken up their own fascination with the glowing shafts.
Something reminds me not to be so obvious however, and reluctantly I drag my attention back to his face. It is sadly lacking in the things that I would have liked it to have, namely feathers, but also bone and blood. It certainly has those, but not where I can behold them for my viewing pleasure.
I have to proffer him another twisted smile, a prize he likely preferred he not be so lucky to earn. He has strong character to remain standing here, stewing in his well-mannered pleasantries. I have not known so many as kind as he, and a shame I don't (for him). What a different horse I could have been had Murdock raised me, or even Murdock's mother.
Alas, He raised me, of which I am forever grateful in fulfillment of the popular phrase, ignorance is bliss.
"How many feathers," I clarify for him, just as serious and deadpan as before. I straighten up my head, but the world remains askew, as always. "How many does it take to fly?" I can do the math as to how many he'd need to lose to not-fly, if he could just answer me the reverse. I figure asking the kinder side of the question will illicit a better response, or so the small sanity living in the corner of my conscious suggests. Personally I have an urge to rush him and pluck him faster than he can piss himself.
On the other hand, I don't really want to get dirty.
Learning is so hard.
"If I had some, could I fly?" I ask further, trying to appear innocent as I begin to creep forward. My gait is somewhat skin to a stalk, aided by the high slope of my shoulders. I smile to put him at ease again, the left side of my face failing to uphold it as high as the right side so that it slops around my mouth like wine in a drunkard's hand. "Fly, fly, fly" I chant in a sing song voice, high in pitch and oddly childish, despite everything but about me.
// Baby d o l l I recognize
// you're a hideous thing inside
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Her eyes reminded him of the tree lamps, staring out of the darkness of her macabre face like two perfect amber lanterns. Their light was warm in the way that they glowed softly like the embers of a fire, though her gaze instilled little else but a chill within him. Her jagged mouth, like the sharp switchbacks of a mountain path, seemed so physically impossible that he was almost convinced he was seeing things. A trick of the light, perhaps? Yes, that must be it. The haunting glow of her orange eyes mixed with the pale radiance of the lanterns was turning her face into a ghoulish mask. That, and his imagination received far too much entertainment from tampering with his eyesight.
The mare herself was like a neon warning sign. She was dark and plain-like, though certain minute details stood out to Murdock like the hidden pieces of a morbid puzzle. Put them together, and you would arrive at the conclusion that this creature was certainly not someone you want to be chatting with alone in a clearing in the dark. A shiver ran down his spine. Her silence was eerie, though not so much so as the emptiness of her gaze. She appeared uninterested in his formalities, and instead once more directed her attention to the folded wings at his sides.
"How many feathers?" He repeated softly, hardly a question. His brows were furrowed in a frown, as if he was unsure whether he had heard right. Was his imagination messing with his hearing now, too? Hesitantly drawing his attention away from her, he cast a glance back at his wings. They were large and white, slightly ruffled and damp, and folded neatly at his sides. There were large feathers, medium feathers, small feathers, and feathers so small that they would more likely be classified as down. The larger ones, those feathers in the range of one inch long to those stretching beyond six inches, were tipped with softly glowing green. Each and every feather on both of his wings were required for flight, or so he guessed.
However, evidently he could spare one or two here and there. After all, he had gifted two feathers from his left wing to Chernobyl, and had never noticed a difference in his flight. Those feathers were still missing. Since she had left him, he had torn their replacements out each time they began to grow back in. It was a way to remember her, no matter how insignificant and painful. If he could spare two small secondary feathers, then how many did he truly need to fly?
"That...is a good question," he responded with a grin, glancing back at her for a moment before returning his attention to his wings. He extended the left wing slowly, tilting it up at an angle and splaying out each feather so that they were all visible to her. Of course, he would not have done this if he had been aware of the motive behind her questioning. Despite her unsettling appearance, he did not hesitate to think before opening the span of his wing. He counted quickly, drawing his eyes across the pale expanse of feathers until his gaze travelled upward toward the feathers that were so small, they were almost indistinguishable. It was hopeless. "A great many, anyways. Though, I seem no worse for wear when I lose the odd one on occasion."
Folding the wing back against his side, he turned to face her as her next question left her jigsaw lips. He laughed as she crept closer, a nervous sort of sound as he swallowed thickly. Her shoulders were high and sloping as her head was held low, as though she was a predatory cat stalking her prey of a foolish bird. "I-I'm sure you could, yes. But, where would you get all the feathers you need?" Though deeply unsettled, Murdock was still oblivious to the danger he faced. He was determined to believe that this mare, this wanderer like himself, was innocent and pure of heart. Her appearance was all but comforting, though that should not determine her character. He tilted his ears back as she began to sing, her voice echoing off the darkness as though there were walls hidden within the black. Could he not find just one soul to offer safe and peaceful company?
"talk talk talk"
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
He seems to be able to read the warning signs I naturally give off, like a brightly colored snake that a bird of prey opts not to snack on, so my nature belies my words and manners that might say otherwise. Yet this stud is no hawk, surely, but a frightened, mind-addled turkey. He seems conflicted, at times smiling uneasily and glancing at me with eyes that suggest knowing, while at other times his grin comes easy and true and he seems to relax, of all things, and carry on our conversation. It's refreshing surely, I don't normally interact with someone I intend to pluck for this long, whether at fault of my own actions or sharp perception on theirs. It makes my mouth water with a certain tang of anticipation - he will surely taste different too, won't he?
What if you lose an even one? I want to ask, seriously, after he states he can lose an odd one. I'm still creeping forward though, my lips eagerly stroking each other as the urge to take grows and floods my system. The drums return to my ears, the train whistle screaming in my mind and flying through the track of my limbs.
It barrels around the corner, sparks streaking off the metal of my bones just as he stammers out his last phrase.
I glance up at him, orange interlocking on blue, and then I erupt.
The train is me and I'm churning towards him. The whistle blows, my throat shuddering out a shriek of joy, and the steam billows, my mane whipping around. I lunge, teeth outstretched like the grill of the engine car, seeking to yank and jerk and rip and tear every feather from his body.
I face his left wing, so close, and once I start I don't stop. My neck arches, coiling like a snake is trapped beneath my flesh, as my skull jerks out and back like a repetitive machine. My orange irises are swallowed by white rims and dilating black pupils as I fixate on the fluffy down of this turkey. Transfixed, I know only to keep ripping, my teeth gnashing and my limbs stretching out to keep me upon him should he stagger away.
I'm derailed.
[This thread is fun :3 thank you for joining it!]
// Baby d o l l I recognize
// you're a hideous thing inside
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Her approach continued. With each eerie second that passed in silence, the ‘creature’ grew closer. Murdock wasn’t entirely sure he could call her a mare, or even a horse for that matter. She was clearly of the equine species, and for the most part, her build would suggest she was of similar evolutionary beginnings as him. However, it was her mind and mannerisms that made him doubt they were even remotely related. While his own mental state might not be considered perfectly sound, there was something far more disturbed and sinister about hers. From the vacant look in her eyes to the lack of social skills, he was beginning to think he was dealing with a highly dangerous sociopath.
“Maybe, um. Maybe the Gods would give you wings if you, er, asked them nicely?” He suggested with a slight shrug of his shoulders, pinning his ears against the haunting sound of her voice. Just try to act cool… He told himself, though every ounce of his being doubted that would save him from trouble. He glanced around frantically, praying that at some opportune moment, someone big and friendly would emerge from the trees and recognize his situation. He felt as though she was teetering on the edge, balancing on the cliff of insanity and ready to tumble forth into the chasm of murderous tendencies. Her body was bathed in shadow, the outline of her limbs projected by the dull, washed-out glow of the distant tree-lamps. Her amber irises glinted dangerously as she grew closer, and he couldn’t help but grimace as their eyes met. “Oh G-“
At that moment, she came completely unglued. A terrible scream like the scraping of metal on metal tore from her throat as she lunged at him. Dark limbs flailed for a hold on his body as he recoiled from her assault, throwing his wings out to the side and reaching for the skies. She had been too close, though, and before his feathers could gather air beneath them and pull him toward the stars, she had him pinned. He threw his weight backwards away from her, glowing hooves digging deep into the earth as he struggled to free himself from her grasp.
“Help!” He cried out as he pulled his head away from the white flash of her teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning away from her flailing hooves. He could feel his wings being pulled at, feathers loosening in her mouth and drifting away on the breeze as if someone had burst open a down pillow. He fought with all his strength to pull away from her, but in her scramble to grab hold of him, one thin foreleg had managed to wrap over his withers. He beat his wings furiously, desperate to save them from her vicious onslaught.
Snapping his neck around, he closed his eyes and blindly lunged at her with his teeth. He was larger than her and had more muscle, whereas she seemed to be mostly skin and bone. He should have been able to escape her grasp, however the entanglement of their limbs and the crazed flailing of her hooves had somewhat limited his abilities. While his teeth aimed to grab hold of whatever they could, he leaned all his weight toward her, hoping to set her off balance and cause her to remove her leg from across his back. If she lost her balance, he might be able to push her over, hopefully without coming down on top of her. He gritted his teeth against the sting of missing feathers, every part of him regretting asking just where, exactly, she planned to acquire the materials for wings. Crazy bitch.
"talk talk talk"
(No problem! c: )
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
His voice is lost to me as I move into him, at him, around him. It passes over me like nothing other than the air I breathe - were I aware it would have sparked an interesting though. Can you breathe words? Do they fill your lungs differently than air? Will all of our talking, all those words, eventually displace the air and clutter the comfortable silence of death with pointless chatter?
Perhaps my next scholarly adventure will be to suck down the screams of someone to see just how different it feels in my lungs.
With each jerk of my head I can feel the cool slide of the feathered shafts drifting in and out of my mouth. They roll across my tongue at times, poking against my gums at others, one even causes a small bit of bleeding, but that only enhances the experience as my copper flavor dances against my tongue. It's all an intoxicating, invigorating, incident that only fuels my frenzy with each progressing success. I would have laughed if I had any time to spare, but my neck is a stream of constant motion driving my head back and forth, my teeth clamping and releasing in a perfect rhythm of mutilation.
The turkey struggles and gobbles and flails about, his wings at times wrenching away from my close proximity, but I'm on him. Literally I'm on him as one of my limbs in my madness has hooked his withers, keeping him against me as if he were an insolent child being pressed into the bosom of his furious mother. Take your punishment my mind demands, all the while controlling the click, click, c l i c k of my teeth as they slide over the odd sensation of his wings. Feathers are like nothing else I can describe. You cannot compare them to much other than each other, such is their unique property.
It drives me into a lust, aching to feel them all over my body.
It's in this moment, when I sit on the height of my scientific discovery, that the turkey's terror manifests into something more, organized. I am reminded with a sudden dread that I am not dealing with a true bird, but a pegasus. A pegasus which is stronger than me. A pegasus whom's intelligence lingers near my own, if not matches in its own way.
A turkey I could deal with, a pissed off warrior bird-horse is another matter.
He lashes out at me with his teeth and he weight and it strains my hooked leg which was already uncomfortable and tests my balance which was already teetering. More than that though, he rips my mane like an over-excited drunkard caught in the need for his hooker's bare bosom to be exposed. That shirt costs more than your life!
I screech like a harpy, the feathers fluttering around me only adding to the effect. The pain I feel is nearly on equal with my shame as my perfect body is marred by the chunk of missing mane and the bloody triangle exposed on my black dress. I finally halt my maddening plucking, but as I attempt to reel away from him my leg remains stuck. I yank and yank upon the stupid thing, nearly wild in my shrieking as my fury transitions into something more like fear, something I rarely feel. The panic thuds in my ears as my heart doubles its beating, the sound deafening to me.
In my mind, I'm not stuck, but he's holding me. He's keeping me. Oh Oblivion he's going to try and kiss me and poke me with his ugly chicken dick!
My head thrashes around and my body twists, flopping down on the ground like an alligator death roll gone wrong. My leg finally slips off his back with a sickening sound. It's only fractured, the angle I took as I rolled to my right helping it come free, but the abrupt drop of my weight still stressed the bone before it was in the clear.
I don't even notice.
Perhaps its the kind cushion of his feathers nestled under my head that lulls me into a bliss, or perhaps, and more likely, it's the rage budding in my chest at the indecency he showed at trying to rape me. Either way I rise suddenly, and with me, so does the dead.
A squirrel, recently drowned int he stream, comes flying out of the waters and heads straight for his nearest leg to climb up it and harass his head, perhaps thinking one of his eyes a tasty nut to chew on.
From behind him a mountain lion's cub that hadn't survived long after birth, left to rot beyond the den, crawled its way out of the dirt that had begun to pile upon it and raced to bite at his back pasterns.
And I, I am there too. I strike out with teeth and tears at his neck, aiming specifically for his throat, but I recede as fast as I come in. I truly have no interest in tangling up with him again, but I wanted to get one last hit in.
"That'll teach you to watch where you stick your cock," I hiss, my lips scrunching up so my teeth are exposed at rest. My orange eyes, still a lighted fire of fury, watch my minions do their bidding.
// Baby d o l l I recognize
// you're a hideous thing inside
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
11-04-2013, 07:52 PM (This post was last modified: 11-04-2013, 07:53 PM by Murdock.)
Like the needle of a sewing machine, her head darted back and forth with a deadly rhythm. He could feel his skin tearing as feathers were ripped from their places, blood beading at the surface and staining his snow white wings with drops of scarlet. He knew nothing at that moment but fear and panic. The mare that had seemed so utterly eerie yet altogether vacant had turned into a monster within a matter of seconds, and he found his confusion replaced with an overwhelming desire to escape and run until his legs could no longer hold him up. His feathers were what allowed him to visit the skies. Without them, he would be nothing.
As his fear manifested into fury, he could feel her hold on him change. Her crazed attack turned into a wild struggle to free her leg from his back, her jagged bones stabbing into his rib cage as he tore at her neck. His teeth were met with thick strands of her mane, and without waiting to ensure his grip he tore fiercely. Her screams of pain reverberated through his skull as he tossed his head to the side, bloody pieces of her hair fluttering to the ground amongst the flurry of feathers. All he could feel was the chill of the air as it clung to the dampness of his body, now drenched with sweat along with what stream water had soaked into his coat, and the sting of missing feathers. Oh, not to mention her elbow digging into his spine.
Her body begins to twist and writhe against his side, her limbs flailing as a terrible sound rips from her throat. He ducks away from her frenzy, thrashing against her efforts and beating his bloodied wings. Her forelimb, slung over his back and firmly caught across his withers, smashes against his shoulder repeatedly as she dances about. His muscles ache and his ears ring, but all he can think to do it save his wings from her assault. He leans to the side, spreading his legs to brace their combined weight when suddenly she slips free.
She falls away from him into the darkness with a sickening crack, and he can see her dark silhouette against a bed of pale, glowing feathers. He cringes at them, like a pile of fallen snow, abandoned on the earth where they will be dragged away by the wind and carried off by nesting birds. His sides shake as he catches his breath, tearing his eyes away from her rising figure as he turns to run. His hooves slip across the damp earth as he spins on the spot, folding tattered wings against his sides. But it is too late to escape.
A squirrel flies through the air toward him, its body projected with impressive velocity as it arcs toward his legs. There is hardly time for a thought to pass through his head, hardly time for his eyes to register just what, exactly, was flying toward him with deadly determination. Murdock flinches away from its trajectory, but needle-thin claws find a firm hold on his foreleg and suddenly the tiny, wet creature is scaling his knee. Horrified, he glances down at the half-decayed rodent seemingly risen from the dead that is rapidly nearing his neck. Without a second thought he lurches away, rearing up on his hind legs and reaching for the minute attacker with bared teeth. He snaps his jaws at it, hoping to grab it and toss it back into the stream from whence it rose.
The squirrel is not the last of his problems, however. Murdock whirls around as a small mountain lion cub races toward him. Its body is also half-rotted, with its coat hanging raggedly from exposed flesh that clings to its tiny bones. Clearly, it was well past its ‘best before’ date. It is at this moment that he prays he is dreaming, for how could real life be as terrifying and horrific as this nightmare? He backs away, thrashing his forelegs out at the undead cub. And suddenly, she is there too. Her teeth reach for his throat, and he ducks away from her jaws. “Please, call them off!” He cries out desperately, wide, green eyes daring to meet the madness of her gaze. He could not be sure that she was the one to reanimate the dead, but at that moment it seemed safe to put the blame on her. “What do you want from me? Can’t we work this out?!”
"talk talk talk"
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
Perhaps the divines have heard his plea, and sent forth a behemoth to assist him. Perhaps they have taken pity upon him, perhaps the savior was placed upon this patch of land on purpose. Or perhaps the general was lucky, on this cursed night.
Perhaps it was none of those reasons.
Whatever the explanation for her arrival in this land, the Princess leans
against the side of a red oak, not far, yet not close to the fight that has taken place without her knowledge.
Was she asleep? No, the Princess was not asleep, not yet, though the exhaustion it has taken to come to this land has taken it's toll upon her - the Ink that poisons her blood like the kiss of Death has taken it's toll upon her. She is exhausted, drained, physically, and mentally, and so the Princess rests.
Or she was resting, until the screeches and screams reached her as the cries of battle. The shutter's of her lids raise, releasing the earthy depths of her pearls to the world. Sharp orbs that threaten that which may harm her, sharp orbs, as that of a bird of prey. An icy gaze, confusion tumbling around inside her mind as some helpless pup. A sleepy daze fills her, turns her visions to blurred shapes and blends the shadows together to create the hungry maws of demons, ready for fresh spilled blood. She beckons it forth, I'm ready - And she is, she is prepared to defend herself with tooth and hoof and flapping wings, she is prepared to fight the hunters that have come to take her skin as fresh-kill to lay upon a platter. Blood, the ink whispers, lust for death singing inside her cranium.
But when the Princesses vision comes into focus, a silence echoes inside her mind.
There is no hunter. She is not being hunted.
Yet the screeches continue, cries for blood that startle the night-dwelling creatures and send them forth into their holes. The Princess continues to gaze outward, yet has no intention to follow the cries. She does not seek a fight, she has come here to rest, to calm her rattled bones.
It is the God's amusement that she does not receive such a blessing.
In the milky glow of the moon, a scream for aid is received to her alert harks, dig's it's claws into her bones. She has no reason to answer it.
But it is akin to a child, battling nightmare's of devils and bloodied beings, reaching towards it's parent with chubby hands and fearful, wide pearls. Is it right to ignore it's begging for comfort, it's soft whisper for aid? Is it right to rip it from it, to allow it to be dragged down and pillaged by the demons?
The shadow moves from her place against the red oak, moves forward, grim expression upon her dome. She leaves the peaceful glade.
Was she even there, to begin with?
Time ticks on, passes.
"Please, call them off!"
She slows. She has arrived late to the dance.
Hooves thud against the hard ground, a looming shadow.
"What do you want from me, can't we work this out?!"
Luminescent feathers form a bed of downy warmth upon Gaea's back.
The colossus moves forwards. The moon behind her frame, the front of her bodice obscured in darkness. It hides her dome from clear sight,
but a scowl has touched her maw. Adrenaline surges sluggishly into her veins.
A half-rotted cub, a undead rodent. What has this world come to? She tries to think no more of them,
Brighid is a straight-forward woman, she has no urge to dwell on the spiritual.
The round, hard hoof of the Princess raises, then the other, her heavy ship lifts - wings snap out and upwards in a flurry of feathers and a bellowing sound escapes her maw. The shadow of the Princesses wingspan casts yet more darkness in it's wake, her hooves slam back down into the Earth and cause the smallest of tremors to pass through it's crust. They land hopefully near to the dark woman. Though she does not make a direct attack unto it's person, it is a threat, a warning. Leave him alone.
Hark's lay flat and get lost in the tangled mane upon her thick neck, she snaps at the undead cub, another harsh hoof beat into the Earth, as if it has caused this.
"Be gone."
This time, the deep baritone of her voice is verbal, a low growl rumbling from the depth's of her chest and extending out towards the mare. She isn't sure what has taken place here, but the woman has the crazed expression in her gaze of a rabid canine. I'll put you out of your misery.
Dare she refuse the Princesses demand, and retaliate against her force?
Or shall she, too, fade into the haunted night?
-
Note: hope you don't mind me throwing brighid in! if you don't want her in the thread just note me and i'll delete this! also sorry for the sucky post, i had a better one but deleted it accidentally halfway through and this one just wouldn't co-op with me!
11-10-2013, 01:23 AM (This post was last modified: 11-10-2013, 01:24 AM by October.)
mongrel mind.
It's a certain pleasure that I feel as I watch the cub and the rodent antagonize the ugly stud and his worm penis. I can't quite describe it, since I'm so accustomed to the pleasure of my loins, but this doesn't feel the same. It stirs my body, but more a feeling in my heart than the caverns that my tail keeps secret. What is this feeling?
It finally comes to me as he screeches and calmbers away from me, begging for my mercy in this pivotal moment of my life, my awakening. I flick an orange eye to him and then smile. I know what this is.
This is success.
No wonder father was addicted to it.
The partially plucked turkey with his deflated pecker speaks again, interrupting my internal dialogue and praise. "SHUT UP!" I hiss between gritted teeth, my tail lashing out the finality of my anger as my words die off my tongue. All this chatter honestly how does he expect me to think? "By Oblivion your voice is as unbearable as your cock!"
Just then another noise adds to the chaos. It rises and bugles out like some bison wallowing in heat, but it's enough to startle me into my spine. My concentration snaps, thin as it was, and my children disassemble and scatter back upon the ground, lifeless once more. Through the dark my slited eyes probe and there they see the crawling shadow of a winged dove. I race up the black trail and there she stands, imposing with her wings and tramping feet. I shudder at the sight of her, transfixed by the appearance of the stallion's guardian angel seeking to drive me away. "It's him in the wrong!" I shouted, uselessly, as her words, so callous and commanding, overtook my voice in an instant.
I recoiled as though struck and the movement jarred my fractured leg, which now I felt as sure as the king of demons spawned me. I hissed out my pain and stepped back further, trudging down in the waters that had drowned my puppet and born my rapist. My lips curl and scrunch, wavering like furious grubs on this face of necromancy.
Useless, I think, knowing the angel brings the light while I crave the dark. I turn away hastily, splashing and hobbling down the stream until I am no more.
// Baby d o l l I recognize
// you're a hideous thing inside
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Her voice is terrible, like the grating ‘caws’ of raucous crows that call to each other from the treetops. While his body aches, his ears feel as though they will bleed from the screeching cries that she utters in her moment of maniacal ecstasy. To see him suffer seems to bring her such pleasure, such enjoyment that he cannot even imagine. Why is she doing this? What has he done to incite the punishment that she now serves him, relentlessly and heartlessly? He was but a mere wanderer, out for a walk in the wilds when he happened to stumble upon her. At first, she had seemed strange, but far too vacant to be deadly. How had his judgment failed him?
His body twists beneath the teeth and claws that scrabble at him from all angles. His eyes are closed, his head ducked beneath the shelter of his chest and his wings lifted high in the air so that they might be away from the reach of her undead minions. His feathers are gone, or at least, mostly so. His wings feel light and bare without the burden of soft plume that he was so accustomed to. He hardly cares about the blood that is drawn from his body, or the muscles that might be bruised. He mourns the loss of his feathers, the loss of his ticket to the skies.
Another voice then adds to the symphony of chaos, and suddenly, he is saved. The creatures release him, scattering into the darkness where they collapse on the damp earth, void of life once more. He hardly dares open his eyes or remove his head from between his knees, lest this newcomer be far more foul than the rotted mammals he had been dealing with. This sounded far bigger. Though, perhaps, if luck finally favoured him, his saviour had arrived. With a moment’s hesitation, he lifts his head as his eyes follow the darting form of the dark mare. His gaze finds the figure of a fellow Pegasus, whose eyes lack the light of insanity that has grown far too familiar.
He ignores them now, coughing until his body shakes and he crumples to his knees in the dirt. He has suffered mere scratches, though some have been deep and let thick blood flow down the insides of his legs to scatter across the grass like drops of crimson dew. In the darkness, his body becomes almost invisible, save what white feathers remain on his tattered wings. He vaguely takes note of his assailant fleeing down the stream, but the sudden quiet is far too overwhelming.
“Thank you,” he manages through trembling breath, tilting his chin upward to look at the stranger who saved him. She is hard to see through the darkness, but she is tall and winged, and smells of his home. The smallest of smiles is summoned to his lips, but it fades quickly. “I wish I knew what I had done to deserve this,” he gestures loosely to his torn wings and bleeding body, “but your guess is as good as mine”. Though he had suffered great loss as a result of the mare’s attack, he found he felt no anger toward her. Confusion, of course, and regret for ever having approached her, but he could feel no hate. Perhaps that was owing to his own insanity, or the fact that he was far too delusional in his current state to make any level-headed decisions about his emotions.
"talk talk talk"
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
Transfixed, spellbind, the opaque Lady of Nightmares comes forth with a quaver and tremor, denial and disavowal in a pointless screech, conquered by the deep timbre of the Earth's command. A sharp expression of decree, the woman watches as the ghoul flounders and recoils, as if struck, she hisses as the snakes in pain and the Princess remains motionless, exalted, free of the chains of madness that have clutched the charcoal woman.
The waters take her once more, and she slides into the muck as that of a crocodile, the Princess imagines that she would be given the teeth of one, as well. Hobbles and disappearance follow her as she is cloaked in the shadows once more, until eyesight can no longer keep up with the ink of the night, yet the statue stands with imposing force, unmoving, a cement block with breath that flows from its lungs. There is peace, silence, bearing down with brute force, tranquility, as if the monsters that have taken place here were but dreams of a child in the nest, with the warm, watchful expression of a mother's caring arms to wrap around and bundle close, to whisper that it was not real, it did not happen, but it was mere imaginings of a overactive mind. She feels the sudden stare upon her hide, cinnamon meets olive, and in a fit, the silence is broken to the noises of mortal failures.
Coughs and shudders, his frame breaks down, scrapes and laceration, thickened trickles of red wine and the gentle bumps of that which would bruise and clot, it scatters droplets of demonic dew across the fresh grass and its aroma dances in the air as scented flames. Tattered wings hang as banners from limp sides, silence befalls them once more.
He speaks after a pause, watchful eyes upon where she believes his frame to be, gratitude expressed in measures through trembling breath and he raises his dome to gaze upon her hidden frame, a small glimmer of a smile reaches his maw, before it fades into nothing, as well. He wonders, guesses, at what cause might come to earn him such marks, and the statue remains silent, listens with open harks, yet does not make to speak, does not move.
Perhaps it is the roots of deep, ancient wars that bring the glimmers of hatred into her gut, the ideal that it is because he is winged and they are not blessed with the skies that they come forth to ruin him, to cause carnage unto him, to rip forth his right to the heavens. The ink swells in her veins, images, teachings, she is not racist, or so she does not want to think, but the mind cannot erase the taught words of the past, and it is ingrained within her soul as old as time itself.
Nothing is heard, save for the gentle hum of the river and the noise of crickets come to sing them a lullaby, and the statue moves, finally, gazes with dark, knowing eyes upon him, scans his frame with hard, yet soft, pearls. They glitter, gleam in the darkness, two gems that shine with the reflection of the luminescent feathers that litter the Earth around them, as some sickened form of bedding.
"You'll be alright." The words are meant to be comforting, wisps of an accent long forgotten to these equines along her tongue as rainwater. They will grow back. You will heal.
"Can you stand, lad? I will aid you in return to your residence."
I am here. You are redeemed. Fear not, little warrior.
"I am Brighid."
His breathing is shallow, but his breath tears at his throat like swells of wind through the walls of a valley. His exhaustion is more out of fear than from pain, though his body aches as it hasn’t for months. He was embarrassed to have been overpowered by that mare, that scrawny bundle of jagged bones and dark flesh, topped off with a smile that would frighten the devil. His pride was further damaged by the fact that here he lay upon the ground, having succumbed to the fear and minor injuries, and the saviour who stood above him was some behemoth of an Amazon. He surely could have handled that thin mare with ease, if only he hadn’t suffered psychological bombardment as a result of being attacked by things that were supposed to be dead. Never before had he found himself assaulted by a barrage of decayed rodents.
Despite the injury to his pride, he was of course grateful that he had been saved. General or not, everyone had an Achilles’ heel and his mental wellbeing hadn’t exactly been bombproof to begin with. The wounds upon his body would heal in time, though the damage to his wings was a loss that could take him months to recover from. He had never been denied access to the skies before, but now, he lacked the necessary amount of feathers to fly and there was no telling how long it take for them to grow back.
His eyes felt heavy as he lifted his chin to look at the mare before him. His folded knees ached beneath his weight as they were pressed into the damp ground, but the rest of him hurt too much to move. He did not recall having seen the mare before, though she smelled of the Foothills and therefore must be a part of the herd. He had been absent from the herd lands for much of the past few weeks, though, trying to find his way after she had left him; it was no surprise he didn’t recognize new faces, though this was one he was sure to become familiar with.
He grunted softly at her words of comfort, though the pieces of his heart remained scattered. How could he ever be alright when his wings were so torn and bloody? His mind felt numbed, as though he could not speak or think for shock, or perhaps denial of the whole situation. Was it worth hoping that this was all some terrible dream? Probably not. It was best to accept his fate, and perhaps be rewarded with a better truth, than to get his hopes up only to have them cut down like rotted trees.
“Thank you, Brighid,” he began, unfolding his bloody legs from beneath his body so that he could rise. “I can stand.” He hauled his heavy frame up with some effort, his bruised joints screaming against the sudden weight that was placed upon them as he rose to his feet. His wings hung limply and pitifully at his sides like shredded banners, the tips of his feathers glowing faintly beneath the crimson that stained them. “I am Murdock, General of the Foothills. I would be most grateful if you could escort me back there,” he smiled dimly at her, though his eyes reflected little but pain.
In all the confusion, he had almost forgotten where he was. A quick glance around the clearing reminded him that he was in a meadow alongside a stream that was bordered by dark forest. The moon provided little light by which to see, but the tree-lights that hung in the branches provided some aid to his straining eyes. Wherever they were, it hardly mattered to him anymore. “I’m afraid I’ll probably be a rather poor travel companion,” he laughed softly before breaking into ragged coughs. “I’m sorry we won’t be able to take to the skies. But anyways, what brought you out this way at such a convenient time for me? Have you been with the Foothills long?” Perhaps she was a seasoned resident of Helovia and knew her way about well, or maybe she was just quick to learn. Either way, she had an air of wisdom about her that was incredibly comforting.
"talk talk talk"
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
Burdensome emerald clashes with fiery Earth, warm and harsh, and the Princess tosses a thick mane of messy brunette and greenish-bronze in reaction to the stare. She did not do this, she did not overflow with emotions through the pearls of her dome, and it startles and alarms her at how well the Equines of Helovia take emotions hand in hand and dance with them on the wind. For though many the Princess may seem icy and bitter, lacking of the condemnation well-placed sentiment brings, the Princess lacks the ability to express them. They have thus come across to her as weak, mortal expressions, because words mean nothing and never have. She loved her sisters, with a closeness she held dear to her as the frame of a small babe, and in response they were taken from her, ripped from her very chest and scattered (or worse, dead) across the entire globe.
The disbelieving grunt that made it's way to the Princesses harks was not lost on her, and it is so brusque her hardened tone rifles as gunfire into the air that smelt of blood and sweat. "You aren't dead, kid." It's a firm reminder, however rough the tones may come across as. The wings will heal. It's bitter, the Princesses thoughts. At least you still have them. The victim of the charcoal woman's bite should be exalted with the idea that he isn't alive, that he can continue on, as opposed to lay broken on the Earth, with little hope ahead of him to survive. Was that not the proper mortal response to these type of things? Was this not the way he was supposed to react? It only served to confuse the Princess further on the matters of the heart.
Grateful, the voice of the victim flows out from his bloodied frame, red stained legs rising from beneath the brute as they tremor in the strain of holding his weight upward. A instantaneous response is given to the man, a lifted wing and steady frame hinted that the Princess would allow him to lean on her if he so desired. A nod of approval is given towards his words, however, for the Princess does not harbor affection in any form for those who would wallow in grief and weakness, and instead gifts those who have proven themselves strong companions in the journeys in which all mortal's must travel forth. As dead sinew the brute's wings hang limp against his sides, stained with red wine that would crust and blacken as time drew onward, and a heavy frown graces her maw. Did the Foothills even have a medic?
Introductions and titles are cast unto her as flags raised high into the morning skies, painted banners of knowledge and power, and the Princess gives but a short twitch of her harks in acknowledgement of his words. The colossus begins a loping pace towards the river, wing's still raised in case the General decided he should need aid in crossing the waters, the direction in which the Princess headed the northeast. Vigilance upon the two's surroundings was sharpened by mistrust and disapproval of the darkness (for a Hunter would love nothing more then to pounce forth unto the bloodied man, his injured scent a delicatessen for those who ate meat), yet the hawk-eyed woman of the Amazon gave no second-glances towards that which she escorted even now. She trusted he would squawk and screech if a Jaguar leapt forth to gnaw on his bones far before the woman herself would react (as if escorting one with luminescent paintings upon their frame was not a blaring red sign already).
His voice interrupts her thoughts once more, and do all equines talk this much? The Princess has never noticed it before. Regardless, insecurities and uncertainties are measured with a dose of witticism (or so she thinks), as laughter bumbles forth from the man's throat to change with abruptness into that of a heavy fit of coughing. ragged and hard. The man is sprinkled with sheer luck from the God's that the woman came as soon as she did, for with quizzical thoughts she wonders if he truly would have survived much longer against the thin, spindly Lady. "Flying is a convenience." The tone is bland and deep. "Nothing more."
If the General did not yet realize the woman was few of words and even less at conversation, he would soon learn. With a splash, the woman has set foot in the river, inky droplets of water turning into constellations on her mahogany frame.
"The divines blessed you. My meeting was of chance." Melted cores riddled with darkness turn to gaze upon the lad.
"I have not been in Helovia long. I wandered here from our herdland for respite."
And then the woman is moving forwards once more, sudden as the flight of birds, the inky liquid beneath her hooves forming bubbles and swirling around her pillars as she makes her way across to dry land, awaiting yet more queries to tire her mind, yet the Princess is well-prepared.
After all, the civilizations of Helovia seem to dolt over conversations. Brighid, can do nothing more then go with the flow.
She's becoming well accustomed to dealing with idiots.
"Stay close."
Not yet, Murdock thought in response to her cold words of encouragement. He had sustained minor wounds considering what he had faced in the past, but still part of him felt as though he was dying. Most likely, it was the mental aspect of his injuries that was affecting him more than the physical pain, but both seemed to take a toll. His legs felt shaky beneath him as he stood, but still he was able to walk unsteadily toward her. His eyes remained downcast, focused on the uneven ground as he picked his way carefully over stones like a newborn foal. He tried to ignore the numbness of his wings, focusing instead on the thoughtful bubble of the stream beside him.
He glanced up only briefly as he drew close to her, and finally he could get a good look at his savior. She was quite a bit taller than him, her frame large and strong like the trunk of an ancient tree. Her colours were earthy and soothing, perfect for fitting in with the greenery of the Foothills. She had strange markings upon her body unlike anything he had seen before, but her eyes struck him as the most fascinating. He held her gaze for a moment as though transfixed, his pace faltering for a moment, before he registered her stance. Her wing was raised, her broad side turned toward him as though offering to help support his weight. He was tempted for a moment, but stubbornly shook his head. He already appeared weak enough in her eyes.
The pace his escort set at first was, for a moment, a struggle to maintain. His hooves seemed to turn to lead as she broke into a smooth lope toward the water’s edge, guiding him northeast in the direction of their home. He stumbled as he tried to keep up with her, his bloodied legs brushing together and pulling at the torn skin. Bruises across his hips and shoulders ached sharply with each step, but he did not stop. The faster they moved, the sooner they would arrive in the safety of the Foothills and the less time they would have to be interrupted by enemies.
As he reached the shoreline, he slowed alongside her. His head was lowered, eyes squinting into the dark depths of the water so he could guess at the safest places to step. The mare’s wing rose once more, arching high above her earthen body to expose her side to him. This time, he accepted. His hooves slipped over algae covered rocks on the floor of the stream as he pressed his side against hers, using her stability to prevent himself from falling into the water. The cold liquid felt wonderful against the feverish heat of his body, washing the coagulating blood from his legs and belly.
He grunted once more at her words, though somewhat in agreement. If the Gods truly had blessed him, would they not have prevented this event altogether? He had never felt truly connected let alone privileged when it came to the divine entities, though they had always fascinated him. He had never had the good fortune of meeting one such deity, though it was on his list of things to do before another crazy demon bitch tried to take his life. “Thank you, again,” he turned to look at her as they arrived at the other shore of the stream, gradually catching on to the idea that she wasn’t much for conversation. He heeded her words, taking his weight off her shoulder only slightly as they climbed on to firm ground. He wasn’t going anywhere without her.
"talk talk talk"
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?
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