It had seemed like forever ago since the sun had settled beneath the horizon, the promise of a large, orange moon gleaming with surreal colors and light - igniting the world into something beautifully brazen and exotic, seemingly leaving an iridescent glow. Hours ago the sky had began to thicken with the threat of a storm, the clouds appearing heavy and dark, whilst the sound of thunder cascaded into the world of Helovia like the drums of war, a land that she knew nothing of. Tonight, Dahlia walks with her head hung low, the rain had let up some - but it weighed down the hairs of her mane, the drenched locks clutching flawlessly to the fine muscles of her neck, accustomed to such a result. The night air is cold, velveteen nostrils flaring as her own warmth emits into the crisp air, leaving a cloud of fog in it’s wake. This place was unlike any that she had seen before, the graying blue of her eyes harden as they peer into the thicket, the trees had grown tall and wild, riddled with flaw but they were beautiful in their own way. The mare’s body is sleek, droplets of water slipping from the curves of her toned muscles and down the length of her lean legs, the moonlit night offering a steady glow of a natural off reds that decorate and mold Dahlia into who she is, physically. She doesn’t know where she is or how long she has traveled for, but she feels the need to stop, to take a breather and perhaps survey the lands further for what they were, rather than what they looked to be.
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| Deceased |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 15.2 hands :: 5 years Buff: BULK |
| Blu |
The thunder beats in catatonic time to the pounding of his heart as he flings himself headlong among the forest, hooves slamming down on damp soil. They race recklessly, stretching over the earth as if they are invincible, uncaring on the consequences of a single wrong step. Down the rain comes, indelicate bullets exploding on their faces, shattering on their lips, catching on their long eyelashes.
They are alive, and ready to ignite.
Ricochet laughs outloud, the knot in his chest unraveling as he races his monochrome dog, forgetting the irritating worries of day-to-day life. They are thunder and lightning, united by the storm, and they are untouchable and unconquerable.
For hours they run, tireless, lathered, Guns heaving for breath at the Incendiary’s hooves. The stallion does not fare so well himself, foam dripping down his torturously scarred skin, steaming in the autumn cold. How long had it been since they had chased one another like little boys? Too long. Even as he slows, from gallop to canter to lazy jog, the cold air aching in his lungs, the worry he had left far behind him begins to reappear. It is a feeling in his chest, a tension that pulls and tugs at him, constricting his lungs and squeezing his heart with black hands. Ricochet’s jaw clenches, the muscles standing rigid in his cheeks, gritting his teeth together hard enough it hurts, and still he bites down, clamping down on the rising surge of frustration. Leaves swept from branches by the storm toss up beneath his hooves, fluttering in the darkness, and he slams down his forehooves.
Guns creeps away from the stallion, slinking into the shadows beneath the trees rippling in the storm’s breeze, even as the stallion rears, the muscles in his haunches locked, swallowing down the scream in his throat. Again he falls, hooves pummeling the soaked ground. Up his haunches come, lashing out at the trees around him. He welcomes the reverberations that echo through the tendons of his hindlegs, the familiar ache of making his mark.
Audits flick, hearing the whisper of hooves on the ground just hardly over the drumming of rain on wet earth.
Teeth bare, ears pin, veins bulge, eyes gleam with white.
He whips around, uncoiling like a whip, bursting forward, seeing but not understanding.
Quickly he approaches, flying over the earth, and something clicks in recognition in the back of his mind. Legs lock, shoulders tense, head snaps back, haunches come beneath him as he skids in his halt, hooves thumping on the leaves. Exhale, the breath he held in escapes his lungs in a ragged gasp. The bark of his dog. Gleam of chestnut. Shine of stormcloud gray, with flinty green, young eyes. The rattle of his cold lungs in his soaked chest. Raindrops pattering down on his milky skin, turning his head away, trying to avoid showing her the burnt side of his face.
Ricochet stands taller, shaking away the shame that burns in his chest. There are still a solid six or seven strides between them… but he had went to attack her.
Who was her? The Incendiary’s teal eyes flick up. Through the haze of rain, there is chocolate chestnut, turned dark by the rain, a cascade of soaked mane, strength in the lines of her shoulders and slender-boned legs, and steely eyes. Strong eyes. Ricochet offers her an apologetic smile, forcing himself to release the tension in his legs and shoulders and haunches and spine. His eyes are sincere.
“Sorry,” he sighs, tangled tail flicking across drenched flanks. “I…” He clears his throat, lifting his head, planting his hooves stolidly, finding his cocky confidence. “I mistook you for someone else. There are dangerous… things… around these parts, but no doubt you can take care of yourself. I am Ricochet the Incendiary. The dog cowering in the shadows back there is Guns, my pet. I don’t know if someone’s met you yet-” he offers her a lopsided smile- “but anyways, you’re in Helovia. If you’re looking to stick around- or need to know anything- I might be able to help you out.”
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HP: 49.5
For the moments that Dahlia finds herself alone and she is only comforted by the silence that the forest provides. It remains unbroken for just a brief amount of time before the sudden reverberation of havoc play against the serenity. It’s ultimately the sound of his hooves slamming into the ground that quickly catch the brunt of her attention and while she feels curiosity ignite in her hardened stare as they shift, ears pricked forward as the muscles in her neck extend, attempting to peer through the thicket, lashes batting away the droplets of rain as they threaten to deter her chances of vision. The feral strands of hair that drape from her arched tail flick to the side tediously, his figure suddenly begins to appear from the shadows of the foliage and immediately her body reacts and it yields caution. It partakes in a natural aggression that causes her blood to boil over, an issue she has fought since birth. The mare grows even more tense with every step that he makes, nostrils flaring with agitation before turning swiftly in preparation to stare down the stallion who dared approach in such a manor. It’s as Ricochet comes to a stop that she feels the muscles in her shoulders loosen, and she peers at him with a hellish gawk, judgemental - unsure what to think of the buckskin stallion. “Foolish man,” a disgruntled murmur, feeling a brief and overwhelming emotion of distrust, though she captures the sincerity that lingers in the depths of his own teal eyes and takes note of it. A beast would not express any signs of compassion, now would they? It’s a disheveled snort that’s offered as her right foreleg stamps down into the mud. “I suppose it’s alright, though,” an attempt to perhaps burry the hatchet, feeling herself unwind, just slightly. “I haven’t met anyone, you’re the first,” the mention of a … dog… is something she’s never heard of - though - so was this place. There were firsts for everything and she was still young. “For someone who’s never been in Helovia, what should I know?” perhaps her own way of answering, though she is eager to learn and such a thing is clear. She knows absolutely nothing of this place or what secrets it hides.
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| Deceased |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 15.2 hands :: 5 years Buff: BULK |
| Blu |
Ricochet glimpses the movement of her lips, but he cannot hear her over the cold rain falling from the gray sky. One ear flicks back uncertainly, before coming forward again, and his nostrils flare, tasting the air and testing her scent. She smells sharply of pine and fir, the damp and cold of the wilderness. How long has she been wandering on her own? There is scorn in her fierce eyes, muted disgust as she watches him, but to his imminent relief it fades. It is not like the Incendiary to be, ah, intimidated, especially by slender mares half his age… but there is a formidable force in the sharp lines of her dark face.
Again she mutters something, this time loud enough for him to hear it, an acceptance of his shabby apology. He shakes his sodden head, dislodging his bedraggled forelock, a gleam of red showing in his nostrils as he blows out through his muzzle, releasing the last remnants of tension in his chest. It’s comforting to hear he is the first she has met. There are altogether too many others who might corrupt the freedom of the equine mind, force her into joining one of the vermin-infested herds that roamed the land of the sun.
He wasn’t going to stop her if she truly wanted to join such a herd- the World’s Edge or the Windtossed Foothills. As far as he knew, mercenaries still lived inside the rolling hills at the foot of the mountains- he hadn’t bothered to check, remembering the last welcome he had gotten.
Still, it would be rude not to offer her a place with him and his slowly growing group of outcasts.
Ricochet cocks a hind hoof, shifting to a more comfortable position. Cold water pooled in the hollow of his spine, spilling out over the chiselled muscle of his shoulders every time he moved. In this weather, his winter coat was of little use, gaining pounds and not keeping out the frigid weather. He looked remarkably shaggy, his hair clumped, his tail thin and ragged. Mud clotted in his hooves and clung stubbornly to his fetlocks, turning his polished black legs an ugly shade of brown.
There’s a twist in his gut as he realizes she hasn’t offered her name. Teal eyes narrow sharply, and a wariness settles on his scarred features. It wasn’t often that this happened.
Inwardly he shrugs away his worry.
“There’s much to know, but we can go into details later, if you will. There are three herds- the World’s Edge, the Dragon’s Throat, and the Windtossed Foothills. You could go to any of these, and they’ll accept you. They’re true fools sometimes- no caution whatsoever in who they let into their grounds.” He falls quiet for a moment, thinking back to when he had belonged to such a herd. One might miss leadership- he did not. What pride was there in leading alongside a unicorn and bossy pegasus? If he ascended to such leadership again, it would only be to lead Nieque’s descendants. “They believe in equality of the species, and allow unicorns and pegasi alongside equines.” Ricochet is careful to leave out his own opinion- at least for now.
“I lead my own outcast band, though we lack numbers. In my band- we do not yet hold sway over a herdland- only horses may belong.” The Incendiary’s tail flicked across his damp flanks. “We stick together, and we are warriors. Of course, you can always go your own ways if you wish. If not, I can take you to any of the herds I’ve mentioned. Or you can stay with me.” There is nothing seductive about his voice. He tried that before, with an autumnal mare, and it was disastrous. Instead, he offers her a warm smile, a comforting one.
“Here there are also companions, magics, even gods. Companions can bond to your heart and soul, and are very small. Magic, well, that’s self-explanatory… as for gods, that’s a pretty heavy topic to cover.”
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HP: 49.5
Perhaps her own lack of introduction had been deliberate, averse to provide a name to the face just yet - but his own is stowed in the back of her mind, a place that she could revisit as she pleased. It wasn’t often that a stallion proved to be more than a joke to Dahlia, most of them in her homelands had proved to be pig-headed, hankering for only one thing. She is a woman of supremacy and métier, one that would readily kick another in the skull should they ever try anything she wasn’t willing to try. There was only a short-lived silence that settled between them, her steel eyes conveying a definite grade of interest as they trace along the broad physique of the buckskin steed – a brow lifting just faintly as she articulates a moderate intrigue, he was fine-looking – perhaps even intelligent, not considering what he had done just moments ago. The talk of a few cultivated herds was noted, but she was not ready to dive into just anything, yet. She knew nothing of the herds and what they represented or brought to the table, she felt no desire to dip her hooves into poison – as that was what the lack of knowledge was. Poison. Dahlia’s nostrils flare just slightly, drinking in his aroma, his own hygiene seemingly matching hers on this day of rain and mud. The chocolate woman normally lacks the motivation to actually care for the act of self-grooming, she felt no need – who was she going to try to try to impress, anyway? The trees? The mats in her mane would perhaps be more noticeable if she was not soaked to the bone, if they did not cling so eagerly to the base of her muscled neck. “I’m not willing to step into some herd I know nothing of, so I suppose I’ll go with you – at least, for now,” a smile of mischief is offered, a certain spark igniting in the cool depths of those graying cyan eyes. “You can call me Dahlia,” simply, Dahlia. She’d figured that he had been waiting to receive her own introduction, sometimes, she simply forgets her manners, after all – it’s been awhile since she’s had the pleasure of company. The chocolate mare is a creature that desires attention; she yearns for conversation – even if she says little and come off a bit vile at times. Any attention was enough to satisfy, even if it were ill. Casually, the woman would commit to taking just a stride or two closer towards the stallion, ears flicking forward to demonstrate she means no harm, she’s merely curious – her gaze finding it’s way into the shadows once more, attempting to pick out the dog that was his companion. “Magic?” finally, she breathes the word – “Possible, I guess,” inwardly, she shrugs, unsure what to think of it all.
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| Deceased |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 15.2 hands :: 5 years Buff: BULK |
| Blu |
The unnamed mare is a figure of silent authority and confidence, and Ricochet is reminded faintly of another mare, a red chestnut with a flaxen mane, a woman whose name was Evangeline.
The Incendiary shoves such inflammatory thoughts away.
There is a spark in her steel eyes, an ember he is at first uncertain of until he finds her smile, an impish sort of grin that he likes immediately. She has fire, Ricochet thinks to himself, and it glows through her molten black skin, shines in the depths of her iron eyes, but she exerts an elegant control over it that he is envious of. Where he is volatile and quick to anger, she is collected, controlled, and admirably thoughtful.
“It would be a pleasure to have such company,” the buttermilk boy says softly to her, and he is sincere. There is nothing about her that may whisper fool or dunderhead, idiot or lack-wit, no, if anything it’s the opposite. Too often he finds only dimwitted and dullards, but today… Nieque must be watching over him. Dahlia, she says to him, and he connects the name to this dark little mare, and he finds his spirits lifted, grinning gaily at her. It fits her well. Silently he says thanks to Isilme’s equine ancestor, and turns, glancing over his shoulder to see if she follows. “We should get walking if we want to find shelter before nightfall.” Ricochet calls as he moves away from her. “We can talk on the way, of course.”
As they move through the trees, Dahlia speaks doubtfully of magic. The dunskin stallion pauses in his step, lips twisting into a wry smile. “Magic is more real than not. If you’re lucky, you might be able to meet a god. Most times they’re willing to give you magic, but for a price. Typically they will send you on a… quest of sorts, to prove you truly want it and will work for it.” The Tome Guardian had sent him on such a quest. He had had to find Guns in the caverns, and it was only with the help of his acquaintances that he had managed to complete the task. “That’s part of the reason you have to be very careful with Helovians. Many have powerful abilities, and you can’t tell by just looking if they possess it. So, it’s best not to go around pissing horses off.”
… But Ricochet was the best at going around pissing horses off.
“Guns, here,” he called, teal eyes flicking towards the monochrome collie. Up the dog gets, and he comes obediently, nose twitching and eyes bright, eying Dahlia cautiously. “Guns isn’t my companion, he’s only a pet. If he were a companion, we could communicate telepathically. I know it seems a little far-fetched, but it’s true.” Ricochet explains, and he falls quiet as they move along.
OOC: I think we're about done here! I had them start moving which I hope is okay, if not I can edit the post. I would suggest now going to this thread and requesting Dahlia to become an Outcast. If you are interested in reading more about Ricochet's outcast band, here is the plot thread. We can continue this thread elsewhere if you like! :D
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HP: 49.5
There seems to be a connection between the duos, something that is unique in its own way – they would be marvelous friends, should they pursue such a path, even though Dahlia tends to hold everyone away at arm’s length with the fear of growing emotionally close to another. Such an issue has plagued the chocolate mare to a life without real friends – with only figures, who chose that they liked her, most of the time the feeling wasn’t mutual. “Let’s go, then,” she’d state firmly, moving forward to follow Ricochet – but merely, she is at his side rather than trailing behind him, expressing that she feels they are equals, rather than one greater than the other. The acceptance she provides is clear and unmistakable, tail suddenly slapping towards the side, in an effort to playfully swat the stallion’s rear which should provide a suitable sting – having wet hair and all. “Maybe sometime I’ll be on my own quest – how does this happen, anyway? Do you find these… gods?” it’s a supple craving for more information, to pick and pull at whatever she could divulge from his brain. The mention of pissing other horses off causes her to laugh, shaking the broad expanse of her skull. “Be damned if I do,” a wink is tossed towards the buckskin, steel eyes momentarily shifting as Gun’s the collie is beckoned, still unsure what to think of this canine. She would follow him to where he saw fit to stop, wherever that may be.
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( i'd love to continue! c: could you start a thread for us somewhere? )
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