the Rift


[OPEN] Strange Fruition

Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#1

Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

A storm rages; the sky is black. Lightening arches throughout the billowing clouds: angry, ceaseless discharge across the heavens. The storm-heads are swollen with rain, though it has yet to fall; the earth below, the scorched, parched, dusty earth, begs for the imminent downpour, its hands outstretched, its mouth opened wide, wide, wide. The air has yet to carry the relief of the storm-wind. The breeze is still a bitter one, one of heat, one of dust that clogs the lungs. The sky teases tenuous relief—and it is only a tease.

Animals flee. The storm is here to destroy. Birds flutter off, foxes dig into their burrows to escape the oncoming fury. Reginald feels this instinct in his childish bones, his want for his mother, his need for her safety, for the protection of their sheltered meadow. He is not so far away from home, and yet his body begs him to turn around and bolt, to escape the open fields of dry brush. It is dangerous; it is time for shelter.

He ignores this plea in his blood, for he is amused by the sight. He has never seen a sky so angry before in his short life; the clouds are magnificent indeed, billowing about, blowing in shapes of angry gods and their hammers and swords cleaving the sky in half. The lightening is precious to behold. It snakes about, flashes deeply in the clouds; it shines a blinding violet, an enraged magenta, a white-hot, piercing blue. It is the ornament of the sky’s hatred, the armament of its oncoming assault.

Few trees are found in this place—Reginald sees one, dried and dead, standing lonesome atop a small, raised outcropping. The sky smites this tree; it explodes; flames burst onto it, engulfing the dead trunk and its naked branches. The darkling colt’s eyes are wide with the spectacle of lightening. His ears are deafened by its crackling lash. It is a power unlike any he as ever seen; it is raw and passionate, unleashed in all its fury, a maelstrom unfettered. His utter joy spills from his mouth in warbling laughter, breathless, enticed. He has never been so excited before—the storm compels this passion from him.

He approaches the ruined tree, the pyre of the sky’s rage. He picks up a dried branch between his teeth and approaches the roaring fire; he dips the free end of it into the orange flames, and the tip catches almost instantly. His face is heated overmuch by the flames that lick at the branch in his mouth, trying to kiss his cheek in much the same way. He ignores his discomfort, for the sky’s destruction has inspired him.

The fields so far south are nothing but tinder; the golden grass is little more than dust standing erected. He knows they will burn far too easily. The wind starts to howl; he keeps upwind as he bolts into the sea of kindling. The grasses catch the instant the flame has touched their delicate skin—the blaze that blasts forth almost sucks the wind straight from the prince’s lungs. He lopes for a few lengths, letting the grass catch fire as he goes. When he finally drops the branch, the fire has acquired a soul; it is a living entity, a part from its master. It is a creature of fury and destruction, and it engulfs the field; it travels swiftly southward, away from the Meadow, away from the colt who stands and watches in mad glee. It will blaze until the sky decides to weep for its suffering child—and until that moment, Reginald is free to watch the flames grow and lay waste. He is free to watch and laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.


@[Kovoden]
"talk talk talk"

day1953@pbase

Kovoden Posts: 6
Deceased
Colt :: Pegasus :: 16.3hh :: Newborn
paddeh
#2

ask the line on your face what the line on your hand meant
                K O V O D E N                </style>

FEAR WAS STRUNG ACROSS EVERY NERVE IN KOVODEN'S BODY, MILKY EYES WIDE WITH THE NEED TO FLEE. THUNDER CRACKS OMINOUSLY ABOVE, STROKING THE POOR BLIND FOOL AND TELLING HIM TO RUN. RUN LIKE A COWARD. SOFT GRASSES BRUSH AGAINST HIS LEGS THAT SHUFFLE HIM ALONG, PUSHING HIM FURTHER IN AN UNKNOWN DIRECTION. HE HAD BEEN ABANDONED AGAIN, THIS TIME BY THE ONE WHO FOUGHT FOR HIM. WELL, WHERE WAS SHE NOW? HE CROAKS, A LOUD CACKLING LAUGH OF THUNDER SHAKING THE BONES IN HIS BODY.

HE CONTINUES TO WANDER, HOPING THAT THE DIRECTION HE WAS HEADED WAS TAKING HIM AWAY FROM THE MONSTER ABOVE. PARCHED LIPS OPEN IN A PLEA FOR HELP, BLIND EYES REACHING AND BEGGING FOR SOMETHING. ALL THAT HE RECEIVED WAS BLACKNESS, AS USUAL. HIS HEART BEATS LIKE A DRUM, RINGING IN HIS EARS AND THREATENING TO BURST OUT OF HIS CHEST CAVITY AND RUN AWAY, FLAMES ON IT'S HEELS, ON IT'S OWN (CONSIDERING HIS BODY ISN'T MUCH OF A HELP AND IS PRESUMABLY JUST GETTING HIM IN DEEPER SHIT). A DESPERATE LAUGH GETS STUCK IN HIS THROAT AT THE THOUGHT, AUDITS SWIVELING LIKE SATELLITES. ADRENALINE PUMPS THROUGH HIS VEINS, WINGS TUCKED IN AT HIS SIDES AS HIS THICK FORM BUSTLES THROUGH THE REEDS, UNKNOWN WHAT IS IN STORE FOR HIM.

NARES FLARE, UNSURE WHETHER THAT WHAT HE WAS SMELLING WAS ACTUALLY THE SCENT OF SOMEONE ELSE OR IF HIS MIND DECIDED TO PLAY TRICKS ON HIM. A DESPERATE WHINNY COURSES VIBRATES IN HIS NECK, A HOOF SCRAPING AT THE GROUND. WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSE? WOULD THEY HELP HIM?

BUT WHAT IS THAT? -- SMOKE MAYBE? HE DID NOT KNOW WHAT IT WAS, BUT IT BURNED HIS NOSE AND HIS THROAT GREW TIGHT AND HIS LUNGS WHEEZED. CACKLING, SPARKLING FLAMES DRAW NEAR WITHOUT HIS KNOWLEDGE, BLIND EYES SEEING NOTHING. THE SOUND DANCES AT HIS EARS AND TAUNTS HIM.. WHAT COULD IT POSSIBLY BE? INSTINCTS SCREAMED AT HIM TO TAKE HOOF AND RUN AND RUN AND RUN AND TO NOT STOP UNTIL HE FELL OVER WITH EXHAUSTION.

CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT, RIGHT?

THE FLAMES EAGERLY ATE UP THE DRY GRASS HE STANDS IN, HUNGRILY REACHING FOR HIM, CLOSER AND CLOSER. FINGERS TICKLED HIS FORE LEGS AND KOVO JUMPS BACK, FRIGHTENED, HAIR SINGED.

BUT IT IS TOO LATE.

THE FLAMES RAPIDLY SWALLOW HIM, WRAPPING HIM UP IN A PILLAR OF RED AND ORANGE AND WHITE HOT PAIN. BLOOD CURDLING SCREAMS MAKE HIS OWN HAIR STAND ON END, THE FLAMES GNAWING AT HIM LIKE A STARVED WOLF. THEY JUMP DOWN HIS THROAT AND HE SLAMS HIS MOUTH SHUT, TEETH RATTLING IN HIS SKULL AS TEARS STREAK DOWN HIS FACE. THE FLAMES SEEM TO GROW WITH HIS DISDAIN AND PAIN, STRONGER AND STRONGER AND THE PAIN IS SO BAD THAT NOTHING COULD BE WORSE. HE CAN NOT KEEP HIS LIPS SEALED, AND ALL HE CAN HEAR IS THE ROAR OF THE FLAMES THAT ENGULF EVERY POSSIBLE INCH OF HIM, WINGS FLAPPING USELESSLY AS THE FEATHERS BURN UP TO NOTHING. HE CAN HEAR HIS SCREAMS AS IF THEY WERE COMING FROM SOMEON ELSE, FAR AWAY. EVERYTHING HURTS AND THE FLAMES EAT AWAY AT HIM AS HE STUMBLES AROUND USELESSLY, REARING UP AND FALLING BACKWARDS WITH A LOUD THUD.

HE HAS NO WILL TO STAND UP. HE DOES NOT KNOW THAT HE IS SO CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF THE GRASS FIELD. HE DOES NOT KNOW THAT THAT SOMEONE ELSE CAUSED THIS - CAUSED HIS PAIN AND DEATH THAT WAS CERTAINLY COMING. THAT THAT SOMEONE COULD STILL BE STANDING THERE AND WATCHING HIM AND LETTING IT HAPPEN. BUT HE WAS NOT SADDENED AT THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. NO ONE LOVED HIM. HE WAS A WORTHLESS BEING THAT HAD BEEN ABANDONED TWICE. HE HAD WINGS BUT WOULD NEVER EXPERIENCE THE SUPERNATURAL ABILITY OF FLIGHT AND THE FREEDOM THAT CAME WITH IT. DEATH WAS ALMOST A WELCOME IDEA, IT MUST BE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THE PAIN THAT COURSED THROUGH EVERY VEIN, IT MUST BE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THE ETERNAL BLACKNESS THAT HE WAS CURSED WITH, IT MUST BE SO MUCH BETTER THAN LOSING TWO MOTHERS - THE ONLY PEOPLE HE HAD EVER KNOWN.

WHITE EYES FISH FOR FOR SOMETHING, ANYTHING, PAIN AND FEAR AND HOPE CAUGHT UP IN THE TEAR COVERED EYES, WILLING FOR SOMEONE TO BE THERE - WILLING FOR SOMEONE TO HELP. "WHY?" HE CROAKS OUT, VOICE DEAD AS HIS BODY CONVULSES IN COUGHS THAT GRATE AGAINST HIS THROAT AND EARS.

WHY COULDN'T DEATH JUST COME FASTER?


@[Reginald]


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Abishia Posts: 225
Hidden Account
Mare :: Equine :: 16 HH :: 5 years ~ Birdsong Buff: NOVICE
Wild.
#3


Her small bodice slips around the trunks at the edge of the wood. Slowly, the trees start to space out more and more, and eventually open up to the Thistle Meadow. She quickly makes her way through the prickly place with no interest. Her jog is fastened when her thirst becomes more needy. She needs to find water; her throat hurts with much pain. She nears the edge of the meadow when she finds a small fresh water stream. Closing her pools she reaches her neck down, to peacefully res-

Her head jerks up, her harks erect, and her nostrils now flaring. Was that a scream she heard? She flexes the small muscles that she has in fear, standing perfectly still, awaiting for the sound to come again. And when it does, it is like hearing nails on a chalk board. The sound of pain and horror that trims the voice is hard not to recognize. She whips her head to her left side, then her right. Where is Antie? The others'? She can't feel nor hear them. In this time of need, where were her guardians? The ones that guided her? Her questions are interrupted with another painful scream. The girl decides to spring into action, raising her voice into a panicked whinny, she starts off at a gallop towards the sound.

Her long legs cover ground quickly. She pushes herself to keep going, the screaming continues, she feels like breaking down, but she mustn't. Soon, the beautiful feeling of her angels returns, at her sides are the ones that guide her, (only visible and audible to Abishia) they all have horrible looks displayed in their orbs, which worries Abishia further, but she must push her feelings away. The fae pushes her legs to go faster, flying over rock and sand, sweat beading on her shoulders and her rump.

When the scene comes into sight, she skids to a halt, with a horrified gasp. Before her, dried grass is ablaze, a large field set into a blazing blanket. At the edge of the field is the source of all the screaming; the pain. A small colt, not even a month old, is struggling among the flames. Before Abi can think, she lets out another ear shredding whinny before stretching her legs back into a gallop. She nears the small colt, the little thing writhing in pain. She is out of the flames, but only a foot from them. The dove can feel her fur scorching with every moment. Bravely she speaks up,

"CHILD! Small one! Let me help you!"

She screeches, her voice shrill with panic and hurt at seeing the horrible sight of the poor colt laying, dying before her eyes. Bravely, she steps into the flames. Her nostrils immediately clog with smoke, and her legs feel as if they may fall off. The heat is unbearable, almost making her want to flee. But she can't/ She CAN'T!. Without thinking, she lowers her dome, and puts her muzzle on the boy's barrel, pairing it with her right front hoof. Sternly, she pushes back. If the colt's writhing is working in her favor, this would mean that he would roll towards her, and almost out of the flames.

She winces in pain, tears spouting from her orbs due to the pain. Abi can feel her legs starting to blister, her fur starting to burn from her stomach and her locks being scorched short. But none of that matters. She sums up one more push, which if it worked, should get the child out of the flames and onto the stone. From there, she could attempt to carry the child. But who knows what will play out?

@[Kovoden]

{ Hope you don't mind Abi trying to help! Couldn't pass by this intriguing thread! }



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Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#4

Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?


The laughter ceases with a scream.

Reginald’s body freezes as the shriek wracks his body. His chest convulses; his stomach tightens. Around him the billowing winds of the storm continue to churn the fire, which roars before the grey-eyed prince as though it were a many-headed monster crying out for blood to wet its throat. The branch he had used to ignite the flame is long gone, the wand devoured by the blaze, and there is no way to call back the behemoth that has been unleashed.

It is dark like nightfall. The clouds thicken, the lightening arches menacingly in the sky. Reginald can feel a shift in the wind, a chill starting to color its voice, and the smell of rain is heavier than ever, yet not a drop has fallen from the heavens. The wind continues to howl, there is another scream, and something awakens in Reginald’s breast as he listens to it. It is a strange gem that does not fit within the boiling kiln of his soul, the ravenous hunger of his curiosity and dominion; it is an item apart, and its awakening causes the terror in his bones to explode furiously. His need for his mother is overwhelming. He takes a step backward.

The gem in his heart breaks as soon as it is awakened. It shatters completely as the flames roar on, and Reginald can feel the shards of it piercing him from the inside. He’s sure he bleeds. He cannot take his eyes off of the brilliant orange and gold of the fire as it continues to spread well away from him, a sea of flames reflecting off the wide, pale-grey saucers of the prince’s eyes. His sight starts to sting; he blinks away tears. The smoke becomes thick; it clogs his throat. He coughs. The air is pulled from his lungs; he takes another step backward.

He cannot think. The smoke muffles his thoughts, cotton pressed against his brain. He can only think of Abraham, the image of his larger, darker, younger brother painted on the inside of his eyelids. He does not know where Abraham is. Overhead thunder rumbles, and the gods are angry.

He tries to approach the flames—he is pushed back by the heat. The smoke billows around him, and he chokes on it. His chest aches; the tears that sting his eyes start to pour. He cannot breathe, though his heart flutters incessantly. He does not know what to do. He doesn’t know.

Lightning crackles loudly overhead. His knees tremble weakly against the strongest gust of wind yet. He backs away from flames again, and surrenders to the terror in his heart. It’s mixed with other things that should not be there, worries he’s never had before, anxieties, apprehensions. He wants his mother. He turns, and he is shackled to a walk—but he walks on, surely coughing a lung into destruction, leaving behind the monster he has unleased.

The sky does not care; it refuses to weep.



"talk talk talk"

day1953@pbase

October Posts: 40
Deceased
Mare :: Equine :: 16 hh :: 6.5 years
Blu
#5

october</style>
if blood is thicker than water, then you'll drown quicker than we intend.        </style>
image by Csutkaa @ flickr.com</style>


I see the smoke curling on the horizon long before the firelight dazzles my irises. It pulls me all the same, a moth attracted to any manner of flame, surely an omen I'm to die. Then again, so must we all.

Flutter by little moths of the world, the sun is not the god we think. We worship the harbinger of our doom, heralding our deaths, so bright and glorious. We're such stupid creatures.

I walk, one foot after the other, as I suppose I must. I tried two feet after the other once, but it was very tiring. At my side Öde follows, quiet in his contemplation. I've told him the tale of Oblivion's betrayal, once I learned he'd been fraternizing with other foals. "Don't let anyone in," I whispered to him, my teeth brushing the fuzz of his ears. "Even those you've known longest, even those who've saved you before, even those you'd call friend - they will turn on you just as Nato did, knife on head." I hope I scared the piss out of him; mother knows best.

"Trust only your blood. We are one and the same."

I smiled, looking down at my dark prince, and we pressed on.

A scream trumpeted our arrival and the entertainment proceeded to greet us. A painted filly, precious as could be, rushed in like a valiant soul to rescue the musical colt. I plodded forward just as the girl was breaking down into hysterics. I paused for a moment behind her, the finely curved shape of my head tilting so far to the left an owl might have mated with me.
Öde wheezed behind me, shying behind my legs, but his eyes pierced ever forward. He too is a moth, transfixed by the blaze and the sputtering little insects in its wake.

I smile, the jigsaw of my lips wriggling in excitement against my teeth. "Oh dear," I sigh, "what have we here little ones?" I jerk my head back around straight, leaning forward so that my muzzle is near the filly.
The heat washes over me, a subtle sweat breaking out on my coat, the temperature having risen with every stride we took to come here. I can feel the ash settle in my lungs as I breathe, but I revel in it.
"You're doing it wrong sweetling," I croon, moving to place my left forelimb against her side. "The fire is that way," I finish with a coarse whisper, forcefully shoving my leg against the girl in an attempt to push her back in the grasses.



@[Confutatis]? Thought this thread might work for their reunion too :3
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.


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