| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 9 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE |
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Ragnar :: Plain Boggart :: Suffocate
Nevada |
01-26-2014, 08:25 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-26-2014, 08:27 AM by Crash Course.)
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It is with utmost pace that the civilization in which he tore feathered appendage from ashen bodice had fled from once guarded homeland— the disease in which had thrown itself at him in the very newborn veins of Helovia growing as a tumor outside the gates of the kingdom in which he had deemed home; forced to grovel among the hornless and winged alike in a darkened recess beneath the festering ground of the scalding core. The realm in which at one point he had known as intimately as his own flesh had undergone plentiful changes; a certain obsidian Queen lost (from legends lost) fallen to the grimy hands of the Edge, a reaper by the title of Deimos and a (what he only assumed) to be gilded Queen by the deeming of Illynx claiming leadership among their people. He has heard of Deimos before, by the speech of the former Lady herself— but the name of Illynx does not ring a bell within his churning mind. Nevertheless, he must speak with the so deemed Reaper soon, importance of roles and meanderings groups that call upon the destruction of the hornless and the winged upon the top of his lists of speech.
At the precise moment in which the cacophony of thoughts encroach upon his mind however; the soldier finds himself in search of a much needed scrubbing. The caverns are sparse in lighting from what he has found so far; unless one stands before the blazing wall of flame in it's welcoming center— but are crisscrossed with the spines of rivers and ponds that are (desperately) needed for the man covered in the claret of a mutated, avian babe. It has crusted a onyx vermilion upon his patched alabaster and obsidian flesh, crunching beneath argentate hooves and hardening the (once soft) layer of feathers that threaten to cover the cleft anchors. The soldier, in question, was not irritated and frustrated by mere scatterings of gore upon his hide, although the ideals of nimbility in warfare are prized high above the trophies of battle; and as in result of these conclusions he finds himself before a inky pond, not far from the twisting maze of the flame-lit chamber. Untouched by feathered swine and cumbersome equine alike; it's quite a feeble comparison to the bubbling springs of the Basin, although he is pleased to find no fleas have crawled to it's cleansing depths (but not even the warmest spring of his homeland could wash away the sins in which he has committed).
And so with elegance in pose, steady pillars splash into icy liquor, the (rather shocking) length of his cloak and mane soaked within a mere picosecond. He still needs to cut it.
The meek thought brings up swirling memories from his past and pearlescent flesh and the scent of Her and aureate pools that could have very well melted the soldier into a pile of complacent mud at her hooves (he misses her, he misses her far too much). The soldier had not seen her in the anarchy of their flight to the (supposed) haven, the beginnings of bitter fright and overwhelming guilt mixing with uncertainty inside his core— he never should have left her.
For if a Queen of her people fell to the snatching grasps of mudbloods— a frown bites deep into his maw at the thought— could the Goddess have fallen to their greed driven fingers.. as well?
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Image Credits
† Please tag me in all posts.
| Deceased |
| Filly :: Unicorn :: 16 :: 8 Months |
| Frostie |
01-27-2014, 02:03 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-28-2014, 06:20 AM by Arwen.)
Orinthia, this is a private thread. Would you please delete your post? ^-^
I'll let you listen to my sweet, sweet lies.
As quiet as a shadow, the thoughts carried the delicate soul through the caves. The promise not to go exploring was shattered, now her tiny split hooves walked over the glass, her blood painted each shard. The other half of the promise remained intact. Her pretty lips promised not to wonder outside the cave, the older dove believed she meant their personal cave, the liar meant The Sanctuary as a whole. Knowing it was wrong didn't stop the white shadow, in fact it made her deceit much more exciting. The pale rose picked the petals from her own body, her the golden centre of the pearl petals held the truth. You only had to look closely, but who dared?
Once you donned the mask of an innocent maiden, no body looked past it. Foolish girl, pretty little fool, who would ever come to doubt you? A question for the philosophers. They were the clever men, she was just a spider in the garden. Still the quiet shadow moved without interruption, the only betrayal that remained now was the secondary shadow. Noises reached her tipped ears, the delicate flick as they turned to the direction of the sounds. A friend to play with no doubt, only her games were the same that maidens her age usually played.
Rounding a corner, the little rose watched a great stallion splash into the icy waters that he now claimed as his bath. It was a queer fascination the was withheld within her eyes, the hulking mass before her did intimidate her. Only a fool would be brave of the unknown, still the little rose would not back away. The ripples painted a new surface and the golden eyes stared. The light reflected beautifully onto the roof of the cave, however every time the great mass moved, the light show was ruined. Delicate chops pressed together, preventing speech.
Creeping closer the rose stared at the male, he has stolen her safe haven. It might be that she would have to punish him for it, only if he had nothing better to offer her. Her vocals danced along the waves of sound. "What are you doing?" The blade she held to him was a curious thing, invisible to the eye and made shaper by words. She held the handle and pressed the blade to the brute, only both edges were sharp. What would her do? Rush straight into her blade where it entered his chest and pressed him to her will? Or would he beat the shadow of the blade and take the hilt? Tilting her head to the side, Arwen did her best to appear like a curios and stupid foal.
446 words.
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//Sorry it wasn't there before ^^" I'll do it
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 9 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE |
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Ragnar :: Plain Boggart :: Suffocate
Nevada |
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The beast did not see the cherub come forth from the penumbra, did not view the appearance of such a being in clarity and glory, did not expect a child to blunder upon the emptiness of his secluded (and ever so primitive) washroom. He did not see the twinkling aureate of pearls, for the least of things a soldier that has come from the clutches of death expects is the bumbling frame of a newborn lass to interrupt his reticence, to dare to approach a blood caked monster from the depths of a nightmare (as children should rightfully not do).
As such— he felt a tingling in his bones, a shiver down the length of his spine and creeping upon the back of his neck as the imaginations of hot air upon one's sinew (have you ever felt that you were being watched?) and the agitation that boils within his veins at such a frigid emotion is almost fretful. Indeed, the beast would have passed off such hallucinations of the mind as the chill that pervades at the icy fingers of the basin in which he cleanses; if not for the lingering apprehension of if this cavern was truly salvation from the daemons that wither and haunt the realm outside— if he did not query salvation existed— and gloomy cerulean flickers along with a heavily built dome around the vicinity (for he cannot pinpoint the precise place in which causes him such frustration as this).
He sees the little cherub then.
She is garbed in the palest of ivories, a snow kissed flesh that gleams and shimmers with the allurement of her framework (a daughter of gloriousness, no doubt) and speckled in aureate, as if one has flecked the girl with gems of gold at birth and they have sewn themselves into her sinew; it lines around her starboard pearl in a almost masquerade excellence, draping sterling cascading down from her dock and neck, streaked with vibrant gilt and fading to it's entirety in her forelock— the truest beauty of her appearance relying upon a stub in the midst of her dome, a gift from the divines above in blatant symbolism of her royal lineage. For she is of the crowned, the kingdom in which shall inherit the Earth in it's birthright above the less evolved rats and the mutated winged. All of this he takes in equal stride as the girl creeps ever closer; rivulets of now rosy hued water dribbling down across the contours of his ship. She is a gem, as all of is kind, and this is not new to him (although some of the crowned have been converted to the twisted morals of the unrighteous)— it is the golden hue of her molten pearls, the flecks that gleam and glitter as desert sand that catch his attention, for they resemble Her gaze; the enchanting dance in which they weave. Lyrics are given forth silvery and soft spoken, a spider's web that has come forth from a child's maw, and the (sheer) bemusement that occurs at the words she chooses in which to spin is enough to cause a grin to spread as honey across his maw (a rare occurrence, indeed). Is it not obvious as to what he is partaking in? Does she not understand the logic of a bath? Were not all woman trained from birth in the fickle ways of ladies, of beauty and apparel? How to swoon the hardest of men with waify curves and delicate whispers?
The guttural rumble of his voice slides forth from his maw— the ever so slight tone of amusement prominent in his tone as he twists his neck to gaze down upon her. "What does it look like? A bath, kid." There is something about the scent that wafts from the girl's flesh, a familiar tickle at the back of his thoughts; and yet it is shoved aside, it's importance equal to that of a rat of the skies in his mind.
There is a twinkle in his eye; a light, biting humor, dry in tone and presentation, although most certainly humorous in intention. "Didn't your mother teach you the importance of bath's? I thought you ladies had that down."
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[P] Why is a raven like a writing desk?
