the Rift


[OPEN] ERROR: All Circuits Blown

Circuta Posts: 100
Hidden Account
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 7 Buff: NOVICE
Rhawon :: Siberian Tiger :: None aeolle
#1

That this blood on my teeth

Is far beyond dry

And I've captured you once

But it wasn't quite right

So I'm telling you, that you'll be safe..

With Me

A onslaught of aggression and incursion, a assault, a besiege from that whom has once been called kin and blood and foe and source of affection have dawdled and grown as weeds upon sickly grounds and accursed lands of which she once deemed home, worlds in which she strived to build upon and tender the flames of benevolence, for they have bled and sweated and ached for the cause of a banner in which to place their title and have been damned to the meager societies of vagabonds and fools, fellowships in which have stabbed crimson stained daggers between sloping withers and wafty flesh, unbelieving guffaws of laughter echoing from swanline lines of a neck and harsh violet pearls, and they have craved and desired and served for far too long in order to curb their adoration of lined trees and sparse brush.
It's time to go see your kin.

Eloquence and dance grinds within each clockwork turn of a bone, each finely tuned switch of a hark, each snowy breath of steam into chilled mornings and calm serenity (The doll knows better than to believe such tales). The Nightingale has passed forth from penumbra and disease, rot and deceased, passed forth from carnage and slipped between Hell's gates to stand among the very spine of a civilization, pallid and resolute; for they shall be hers and she shall be theirs, a alliance mortal men have not stood to see with their very eyes until the very ends of time itself breaks and shreds into thin slices of paper within the tumbling claws of a feline's wraith. We shall bring passion and law, subjugation and weight upon softened backs and lazed hides.

The woman of the Nightingale cannot fret in the darkness; cannot allow soldiers to feast themselves and fatten themselves upon lush grasses and fresh fruits until they burst at the seams, it is not so right to allow her blood and kin ensnare themselves upon fresh meals and the luxury of safety whilst her brethren lay in the drifts of snow, cast to damnation for their deeds, however heinous, for all deserve the right to breathe and flourish (except those covered in leafy green whom have forsaken in the name of united Kingdom's and childish ideals of alliance, no, no, the pack of wolves have scented fresh meat and have taken to it as a canine takes to the scent of spilt blood) and none deserve the curses of the disease, the turning of loves and allies, and she queries into how well her brethren have fared. I plea of you, do not perish into the lands in which you have been bonded to.

It is then with meticulous care that the Nightingale halts at the barest screens of scent, the treading of hooves and the promises of a Kingdom, the (invisible) walls that lead upward into a medieval creation in the Malkavians mind. I have come.
Saccharine lyrics weaved in gentle caresses and high chords upon a angel's voice of a song, echoing, reverberating, a cry of mercy, of acceptance and safeties, of urgencies far beyond mortal tidings, for this is life and death and she all but screeches her cries to the heavens.
"Dwellers of the north! I plead thee to come with a bidder of good will to a refuge located in the bowels of the Earth below. A Sanctuary of equidae— A place of solitude for those whom have seen the darkness and disease of the above realm. I shall lead you to her, kinsman, for I offer but hope of a alliance against foe's and that which would abandon your very people in such macabre times as these."
A slap of the tail, a switch of the hark, a plea to the heavens.
"Come with me, I beg of you, and I shall be that which leads you to salvation!"

She awaits, she curves and burns, and when the first slivers of a frame slip across the horizon, she flees at a even pace, tail held high, hooves pressing into frosted flakes of the ground below.


Permission from a Bunnie to say Circuta saw a glimmer of a certain shiny GildedTongue woman on the horizon!
Circuta has left the thread so to speak as well: The Witch is hopefully leading them into the Sanctuary?? IDEK
Image Credits

Cause she's a Cruel Mistress
And a bargain must be made

Illynx the GildedBlade Posts: 413
Hidden Account atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 13 HP: 67.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Kyst :: Common Griffon :: Zapping Jab Bunnie
#2
Illynx
To say that she’d had a rough week was an understatement.

Haggard, exhausted, and baring marks of her various scuffles with the mysterious walking dead who seemed to find great delight in tormenting her civilians, the Lady restlessly stomps her way around the fringes of the land. She is relatively sure from her few experiences with the beasts that it is in vain; there is little that they can do to protect themselves from the monsters that have come from the Marsh, and it makes her so very angry to think that such an opponent has arrived on their doorstep.

That she cannot do anything about it other than to stand watch, to bellow out a warning to her kin before they scattered like bugs away from wherever the call had been sounded, was truly the root of her rancor. But so weary was the gilded queen that the agitation showed only in the dark circles lying beneath her eyes, the sluggish way her graceful frame moved across the emerald grasses and betwixt towering conifers.

She sees the horned figure on the outskirts as she approaches, nervously drawing closer out of fear that she will have to face down another devil in the halls of their sacred mountain. Relatively sure it isn’t a monster, for it walks slowly as a mortal being and does not trail the black aura of the others, she is still not willing to take any chances; she draws to the peak of a hill to watch it’s ascent up the mountain, eyes narrowed as it halts just outside the borders.

Not a wraith, then, she thinks, confirmed further by the words that break from her lips, drawing the golden backed bitch nearer to the woman who speaks them.

She is speaking of safety, a place to finally get some sleep. That sounds most excellent – until she gets to the part about an alliance. Drawing to a halt a respectable distance from the speaker, Illynx lets her eyes slide across her frame for any signs of the darkness having marked her; finding none, as well as a horn stuck between her eyes, the mare decides its safe enough to open conversation with the seemingly respectable female.

"And what will this mutual relationship consist of, other than safety?" she pauses, a soft smile appearing on her lips in apology for her brusqueness, "I am the Lady Illynx, one of the rulers of this land. I apologize for my...rudeness. As you can imagine, my mind is stretched thin."

And that’s even leaving out all the chaos before the devils came.

if I only could make a deal with God.
Magic/assault allowed to be used on Illynx at any time, in so far as it does not kill or seriously maim her without my permission. 

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#3
Deimos wasn’t the only ominous beast nestled in the lands.

Monsters; brewing amongst the poisonous pedestals, waiting, fermenting, decaying the endless empire, festering and bubbling, entombed malevolence, bedlam, anarchy, and sedition. They suffocated beyond the fathoms of his merciless necromancy, as if the devil birthed, painted, carved another regime, another withering imbalance and maelstrom he couldn’t convey, couldn’t convey, couldn’t grasp, beyond his understanding, beyond his comprehension and enigmatic position. The sinister, Tartarean behemoth, with his rapacious, unrelenting munitions, with his venomous raptures and reveries, was forced to admit confusion, unease and apprehension – incapable of reaching towards the fathoms and plucking Lucifer machinations from wraiths, writhing and tugging, chaining and rasping. For once, his nefarious arts, his diabolical precision, his smoking wrath and silent opus couldn’t guarantee safety; he couldn’t bear arms to formulate devastation, not when it crept unseen, not when it whispered covetous requiems and beckoned beyond their walls, infiltrating through terrible, soulless rhythm, unpredictable, erratic, capricious, foaming and choking. What were they to become: a mass of crumbled souls, plucked and riddled, mauled and broiled, charred bits and pieces of powerless, hollowed shells? Were they to be buried in the rubble of all their failures, pressed together in an unmarked crave, slaves to the wandering catacombs of undead, unholy vanquishing? And did the world expect them to crumble, fettered and discarded, forgotten and furtive, specious stories of the old, the destroyed? Through determination, through resolution, through fire, hell and irreverent tempests, he refused to admit defeat to a pestilence, to an aching, perilous disease, but couldn’t combat it without assistance, without notions.

An infidel’s first rancorous, vicious sculpture moved in accord with the restless beat of information pervading their borders, slinking from the hallowed distortions of their quiet mountains, no longer sanctuary, but a temporary precipice of wavering conviction, creeds tarnished by the unknown and the ignorant. Was this one more fiend waiting to poison their blood, awash their ichor in the wasteland of shadows, nocturnal splendor caught and enamored by the raucous decadence shackled to their wares? For a moment, murder and mayhem stirred his impassive stretch of limbs and movement, motions stoked by fervent, untamed hostility, animosity lacquered to the strings and filaments of turbulent tendons, contemptuous boleros, but further ahead, his puncturing eyes captured in the appearance, the silhouettes, of those unfamiliar and not. The GildedBlade, worn and tired, reaching the stranger first, the unknown head of another femme, sword extended, rapier brandished. Instead of running his own cutlass through the frame, the body, of the interloper, he snagged the words formulated, the creeds dictated, the nuances and sentiments expressed through quick interventions and inventions; calculations brewing upheaval through trenchant, mordant desperations.

He was not a believer of salvation (because he tore it away from the reels of tranquility, because she smothered serenity in the sinuous bend of his coiled, curled treachery), but now, when the world heaved his patriots, his soldiers, his people into the throngs of an unforeseeable chaos, he listened. His pace slowed, his head conveyed the slightest of nods to both mares, a brief introduction formed between cold, rough lips, “Deimos. Lord of the Basin,” and then he reveled in the silence, in the strangled threads of his suffocating reticence. Notions, details, particulars and facts nagged at the back of his Machiavellian mind, a constant cataclysm of stratagems and ruses, carried upon the radioactive hymns of mercurial rust.

DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts
and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone
background pattern by webtreatsetc.deviantart.com
image credits

Öde Posts: 145
Aurora Basin Disciple atk: 5 | def: 10 | dam: 5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hh :: 4.5 HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Blu
#4


[Just as a note, I don't think Circuta is in this thread any more? The very bottom of her post she says she runs as soon as she sees someone. o.o]

She left him.

She left him in the Frostbreath Steppe as the darkness descended. She was supposed to love him, she was supposed to care for him, she was supposed to protect him, but instead she left him. His legs were not as long, not as strong, not as fast, so when they ran, and he fell, she kept on going, and he was consumed.

All that fear, all that anger, it bubbled in his chest as he stalked through the icy realm he thought so fondly of as his kingdom. He wasn't just a king though, not if what mother said was true, and he thought it was after what happened to him.


I am a GOD! I know it to be true. Just look at me. My teeth have grown pointed and long, all sitting shiny and pretty in my muzzle which has grown long and furred. My eyes, as blood red as ever, can better focus in front now that they sit closer together. I wear a crown now mother, you would love it, truly. It's the crown of a god, not just a horn protruding from my skull, though that's still there, but long and deadly as if I'm full grown - that's just the crown of our people. It's not just a wreath on my 'brow, that's just the crown of men. No, no, I have a god's crown, I have my father's crown.

My head is that of a giant wolf.



The rest of Öde is mostly ordinary, his stature still small and coltish, though his chest has widened and is adorned with long hair that gradually shortens to horse coat as it meshes with his stomach. His cloven hooves remain, but the feathering has grown so long it engulfs his toes and trails languidly behind his pasterns. His lion's tail does similar, and though it would appear to heavy, he can twitch it all the way to its end, and so it writhes as he walks like a dark snake, one that is ready to strike.

He kept moving north, exploring as his mother never let him do. He was curious to see his people after all, and he hoped they could satisfy the driving need he felt within. It was not the same as hunger, or cold, which his mother had satisfied when he was younger. It was not even the same as thirst or lust, be it of blood or sex, all Ode knew was he could not fulfill it alone. Was this why a god tended to his mortals like a shepherd to his sheep? Was it their belief he craved, or perhaps their screams of reverence? Was it merely their lives he needed to consume, an eater of souls.

Whatever it was, he'd soon learn, as he came to a halt before Illynx and Deimos. He appeared rather suddenly, his body transporting faster than normal, because he was not normal.
Öde smiled, his lips peeling back over his saliva smothered fangs. "You smell delightfully, fresh" he growled out, a sound that rumbled deep in his chest and hummed through the rest of his body so that his feathered legs trembled.
He laughed, a loud, abrupt noise that barked through his snout. It cut off as quickly as it started, and there was but a moment where he glanced at them both, red gaze glittering like freshly spilled blood. Then he lunged.

If they did not already find his appearance ordinary, or his lack of a scent other than carrion, then surely the way his wolf's maw unhinged to open up wide enough to consume a horse whole would alarm them. He drove forward, the snow unmoving beneath his phantom feet, intent to infect the both of them.


EVERYTHING THAT KILLS- ME MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, including death - no decapitating.
Be aware active magic doesn't work in his vicinity due to his magic!


62.5/62.5 HP
Helovia Hard Mode

Illynx the GildedBlade Posts: 413
Hidden Account atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 13 HP: 67.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Kyst :: Common Griffon :: Zapping Jab Bunnie
#5
Illynx
The other unicorn runs, this bringer of safe haven and a stranger to boot, and Illynx watches with broadened eyes the flight of the dame with disapproval until she sees what it is that the woman has run from.

All is in shambles, is all she can manage to think, and it’s not that she hasn’t faced the evil that has come to Helovia before; she’s already sure that the illness has seeped into her, this the third creature she had faced in the passing month of orange leaves and bloody comrades. She can feel it inside of her as she looks on the child that has been consumed halfway by the wickedness that she feels pressing against the back of her eyes, skipping beats of her heart as she finds herself equally repulsed and enraptured by the sight before her.

It was once a unicorn. She knows that much.

Just look at his sword, revels the bitch as she looks upon its length, a small voice in the back of her mind telling her that she should send Deimos on his way, lead those who still lived on the mountain into the safety that the strange and alluring unicorn mare had promised of. The pounding increases in the back of her eyes. It feels like they’re going to burst straight from her face with each sinister hoof fall of the beast, she feels her heart race for the sweet and sad song of this battle she had always been fated to lose.

"Deimos, you need to take the others with the strange woman," she says, so calmly, her voice ever so sweet and wrong. When her eyes turn to meet the stallion, they gleam the color of blood illuminated by fire, veins of black ink running from the already pitch rims of her lids across her delicate features.

Her lips are a subtle and curved smile; there is nothing at all right in the expression. It is all she has to manage her next set of words, the only ones she can think of that could possibly drive the proud man into the task. "They cannot die, I’ve tried before. Now I know, Lord Deimos," she hums softly in between his name and her next words, her unholy gaze slipping shut in her song before they find him once more, "we’re already dead."

She turns her attentions towards the wolf creature, so close now, the dark shading having slipped midway down her neck and stained her golden lock the same gruesome shade of blood that her eyes had taken on. Her horn is now a red, bloody spear that grows with each passing second, her transition into a wraith taking hold of her despite her efforts to hold it back. She will attempt to keep the hound child busy, for as long as she can; she can only hope that the idiot takes her advice and is already gone.

For the devil has come, he is speaking to her and perhaps the Lord if he has not fled.

She meets his taunting with a smile so fitting of herself, a savage battle taking place in her mind even as the beast lunges and begins one for her physical self. She leaps forward to meet the bastard, even when she feels the remnants of her mortal mind scream in terror at the way the jaws have opened on the creature’s mouth. She wants to throw it to the ground and off its feet to grant the Reaper more time to spare her kin, accepting the savage bite into her shoulder tissues with a high pitched and anguished cry.

It may hang there loosely as the screaming stops.

She no longer cares.

Most of the woman is now the shimmering depth of night, a body of pure obsidian supported by blood hued pillars and equally abysmal hooves, her once golden back a seeming massacre of gore streamed and splattered in thin lines across the deep black of her pelt. She sees the world through glowing crimson orbs, eyes that can see the pulses of heat that emanate from the shapes behind her, the faint rings of light that radiate from the living. The wolf alongside her is lightless.

He is as she is.

Together, they are rulers of this universe.

The being once known as Illynx turns about to look upon the gleam of the souls who have yet to be tainted – and grins.

Hope you’re running, little ones.

if I only could make a deal with God.
Magic/assault allowed to be used on Illynx at any time, in so far as it does not kill or seriously maim her without my permission. 

Random Event Posts: 1,286
Helovian Ancient
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
#6
@[Deimos] has 72 hours to respond before the dice determine his fate

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#7
A threat roamed into his kingdom, combed against his senses, forbidding and baleful, coiling and curling into the masses of their sinister wake, a wolf along the fringes, a monster in the hedges. The demonic King should have been permitted to ruin, wreck, ravage and devastate like all the other times before, when inept intruders wandered into his home and spat ignorance, audacity, when foolish, weakened fools traversed into the unknown and came face to face with death, satanic distortion. He should have been allowed the opportunity, the chance, to sink his carnivore animosity into the depths of this persecuting creature, a mere child aching, unwinding for slaughter, press the nefarious reaches of the Reaper’s predilection, cut the beast off from the world, from the living. He was a warrior, a behemoth, a titan, Lucifer’s turbulent sculpture sent to wreak havoc upon the world, stir up maelstroms and conduct bloody oaths, simmer in the chasm of bedlam, swallow and consume the innards, the entrails, of divinity, repose and serenity. But in some cruel twist of fate, in some ironic plunge, demise and quietus were not an option, and pride stung against his veins, stubbornly exonerating that at last he was the vulnerable one. Suddenly attainable, an object close by, sitting high upon the mantle, assured dominance when the derisive lies boiled into his throat and the notion of fleeing had to run through his Machiavellian mind. Escape and liberation gagged him, because it sounded, smelled, flowed through his sentiments like cowardice, when all he yearned to do was plunge his sword into the colt’s chest, watch him cast a final smirk and die in the inhospitable whims of the Aurora Basin – where the strong lived, where the strong reigned, where the strong rose again and again.

But the notion spun toward him again, when he thought of others, and he cursed himself for one elusive moment, yearning for the crushing moments where his blackened heart had not held images of his herd, his blackguards, his brethren or a raingirl and their flower child. It had been so much easier to be the aloof, forlorn, abandoned soul when no one was tearing at his bestial structure. Deimos, you need to take the others with the strange woman, a command he didn’t want to adhere to, broken and rasping over the lips of the GildedBlade, chiseled into an anomaly of vocal structure spilling over the spine of the only one capable of wielding death, and being ineffectual of witnessing its true performance. Reality was a harsh rancor, sliding over the depths of his calculating wiles, because for one small moment he’d thought they could thwart the monster, defeat it, crush it, exterminate it, let its bones bleach out and mold into the fibers of snow and ice, but the distinct ripple of her voice, the transformation from Lady to phantom, ensnared his puncturing gaze, and he was suddenly alone to fend for those in the rime’s distance.

Then she leapt forward, throwing herself into a path of no return, and he bit into his frustration, his vexation, with an iron brutality. He’d offer her one lone opportunity, if she had any left, to bide her time, to dance off into the midst of all her games and ruses. Enchantments called, murmuring sweet, noxious nothings into the horizon, swiftly churning into the corridors of their chaotic fray. While the toxic tombs of their upheaval may not have been warranted full devastation (how does death conquer death, how do the hands, the gifts, of Mephistopheles combat one another), he still longed for a piece, a bite, a relish, of savagery to boil, brew, and effuse from his treacherous wake. His invocations swiftly stoked towards the colt, perhaps, in the grand scheme, in the strange play, they’d instigate a part of sedate, listless phrases, fuse him in a slow, transient haze while he retrieved the rest of his herd, led them to safety while their Lady teetered upon wraithdom. Deimos only gave her a firm nod of confirmation, before giving chase to her demands (perhaps the one and only time he’d abide them), crossing over glaze and frost to secure sanctuary for those yet untouched by the insanity pervading this world.

Then, he’d find a way to conquer the demons sent here and destroy them all.

[Watches Illynx take the hit and sends death magic towards Ode, hoping that it will slow the wraith-child down, then agrees to Illynx’s request and flees to aid his herd.]

DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts
and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone
background pattern by webtreatsetc.deviantart.com
image credits

Random Event Posts: 1,286
Helovian Ancient
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
#8
Deimos attacks then flees, remaining uninfected.
Illynx was previously infected and remains as such.


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