the Rift


black victory

Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#1



t y r a d o n

FIRE AND BLOOD!

The moment he steps from the wilderness to Helovia, he can feel something is badly wrong.

It isn't just the all-consuming darkness that alerts him to Helovia's sickness - he puts that down to the fact it is midnight, and the moon is naught but a silver smear in the sky. No, something feels wrong about the place, and the behemoth's nostrils flare as his ears fold into the tangled threads of his mane. He senses eyes on him, as though he is being watched, as if behind every tree an enemy lurks; his massive head swings from side to side, cold grey gaze searching for whatever demon lurks in the shadows. Nobody there, comes the chirping voice in his head, and he glances up to see his green war-dragon spiralling around above him, her flame-tail illuminating the blackness around herself and her bonded like a beacon. "Check again," he mentally commands her, sending her an image of the gigantic trees that lean like statues over the path before them. "We don't want to be taken by surprise."

Once, being taken unawares wouldn't have bothered either the monstrous stallion or his fire-blooded bonded; they could take down any in their path with consumate ease, even with the element of surprise against them. But since Cynder had been regressed to a hatchling, and since Tyradon had suffered the agonising war-wounds from that unicorn bastard, they were both extremely wary about being snuck up on. Their injuries, both mentally and physically, were still healing, and their combined senses were temporarily dulled as Tyradon tried to grow used to his dragon being somebody he needed to protect, rather than a fearsome creature of her own making. Obediently she flies ahead, lighting the path with occasional bursts of flame. It had only been a few months ago that she rediscovered her firebreathing skills, and she was keen to utilise them at every opportunity, much to the warmonger's amusement and sometimes annoyance. Her enthusiastic blasts of heat could easily give them away to any hidden enemy, but Tyradon fights the urge to ridicule her for her childishness; she has been through a lot, after all, as has he, and they could ill afford to be arguing when they faced this new land together.

The titan continues to press forwards, his massive hooves thudding against the soil as he moves swiftly and efficiently across the new land. There is a distinct chill in the air, and clumps of snow cluster at the bases of trees, indicating the presence of winter. Perhaps the beast has picked a poor time to enter a strange new world, yet there is something Isilme-esque about this place and after six years of living away from all his relatives, he feels it is high time to see if he can rediscover any. His scarred, bestial frame blends in well with the darkness, and he wonders what is wrong with this place - it is diseased, and Tyradon idly wonders if there is any way he can be tainted simply by being here. Any more than he is already tainted, of course. Nothing, comes Cynder's mental voice again, and she swoops towards him to land on his rump. Her claws sink into his flesh, but he barely notices; the skin on his shoulders and hindquarters is thick with scars caused by Cynder's talons, and the area is almost completely numb to her heavy landings. He grunts an affirmation - normally the dragon would have offered more information, yet he knows she still struggles with mental speech. Once she was almost fluent, but now she speaks like a young child - he knows she is as frustrated by this as he, and they both often curse the unicorn who forced her back to a hatchling.

Finally he slows, heavy tail lashing against his heated thighs as his muscular neck arches, sniffing the air once again and finding it clear. "Now we wait," he says aloud, and the green war-dragon sends a plume of smoke into the air by way of agreement. The warlord knows not who he will be approached by, and can only hope it is neither winged nor horned - as much as he has been working on his tolerance of the other species lately, he is unsure quite how much control he has over his primal desire to eradicate anything that isn't pureblood equine.


Confutatis the World Eater Posts: 179
Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 9 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Mongrel :: Common Kitsune :: Dark Illusions wanda
#2
From the seething darkness a shadow grows, undiminishing despite the malice that hangs in the very air itself; rather, she seems to grow, as if fed by such portent evil. Yet even she, born of moonless nights and crepuscule, would not be so foolhardy as to claim the impenetrable obscurity welcomed her. No, it swarmed on her skin and blistered her nostrils, with the rich scent of decay and death, and it urged her forwards swiftly, wary of what other monsters may walk in the stomach of the living beast that was this endless night. There is a presence to this omnipresent bleakness, as if it cocoons her in it's silken webs, hoping to suffocate her beneath it's weight, but she resists it with a toss of her head and a rolling of her eyes.

Her name is Confutatis, daughter of Oblivion, queen of hatching nightmares.
Slithering and sliding at her hooves is the Mongrel, the sooty kitsune with vermilion eyes, a leer carved onto the onyx contours of his delicate face.

The shadows lighten into the starred expanse of regular nightfall, and a tension slides from her supple shoulders. Her step lengthens, fluid as oil, her head swaying just slightly in time with her hoofbeats, eyelids slithering half-close over her eyes, Mongrel leaping from knee to shoulder to wither, where he perches, crowning her shoulders with a wave of his tails most proudly. Even despite the star-spangled sky above, she cannot help but feel a stirring of unease in her obsidian chest... why was it that the darkness did not envelop the entrance to Helovia? It seemed a trap to her, malicious and malignant, a gaping maw drawn artfully, luring the unwary, preying upon the weary. The sound of her hoofbeats quicken, crunching through the thin layers of snow, pearlescent vapor curling from her nostrils in the frigid night air. Winter had fallen soundlessly upon the outside world when they crawled within the underground.

Ahead, she sees smoke.
Within mere seconds, her limber posture grows taut, the curve of her neck sharp and brittle, audits twitched forward, nostrils flared wide as to decipher the scents that pour outward from their sources. Pine and frozen soil and the cold of ice; the rattle of bare branches shifting in the slightest of wind; a tautness to the very air (perhaps she simply imagines it.)

Mongrel growls, and she recoils as she is plunged into the chaotic sea of his emotions, the surging undercurrents of fear and hungry, the black waves of anger (who dares to threaten them?), the gray foam of curiosity. There is red in this vast ocean, sluggish channels of which she senses is her own mind, and she is consumed by him, their thoughts clashing and curling against one another, molding and shaping, malleable and softening, until they co-exist, the sky and sea merging in simplicity and common companionship. Their minds, together, demand answer to what they take as danger, the keenness of their frivolous inquisition hungry for solidifying fact.
They do not think of dragons.

They move forth, breathtakingly silent, but there is still the occasional crackling of snow beneath their feet, the snap of an iced twig dislodged by the winter storms. What they see, they do not expect.

"Wanderer or vagabond?" Confutatis questions. "King or commoner?"
Join the Regime.

Aaron Posts: 260
World's Edge Protector atk: 4.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 6 Years HP: 67 | Buff: NOVICE
Alanna :: Common Hellhound :: Energy Drain Emily
#3

 Aaron</style>
 i lit a fire that wouldn't go out.</style>

A tense feeling took to the air as Aaron and Alanna wandered back to the Threshold. Why they wandered back here, he did not know. Was it hope that the bodies he thought were his sisters would not be so? Or was it hope that the foals each had carried had made it to Helovia somehow. It did not talk long however for Alanna to pick up the smell of others. Not just one, but two others with bonded. Quickly they moved to find out if they were new to Helovia. If so, they needed to be taken to safety of the caverns.

It was Alanna who slid into sight first, her ears catching the voice of the mare. The hellhound was quickly followed by her bonded, the painted draft mutt moving quickly before anything could happen to his bonded. His voice was quick to fire off a retort to her words as well. In times like these, I believe we are all commoners. His attention then turned to the one who clearly was new to Helovia. I am Aaron, this is Alanna. You are? His eyes said he was all buisness, while Alanna's eyes focused on the mare with her kitsune. How different they were from Kimber and Kaiden.... Either way, they needed to all get to safety. The pine cone in his mane could help protect them all, but for how long? His gaze flicked quickly to the strange mare and then back again, hoping they both would give names. We should not linger here long, it's not safe.

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In Nomine Patris Et Filii
Et Spiritus Sancti

Please Tag Aaron in All Posts
Permission granted to use magic or physical force with Aaron at any time for any reason to any degree, with the exception of killing him.


Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#4



t y r a d o n

FIRE AND BLOOD!

The beast stands, gargantuan weight shifting to rest alternate legs, but he does not allow himself to calm to the point of dozing. He never relaxes in open spaces; he is too used to having enemies leap at him from behind every tree, out of every shadow. His ears pivot, constantly searching for the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and he can feel Cynder twitching as her own serpentine neck turns to devour her surroundings. She holds her flame-tail high to avoid it burning Tyradon's flanks, but every so often she lets it slacken and he feels the familiar scorching sensation and the reek of burning fur - each time, he twists his skull to shoot her a dark glare, a solemn warning to be careful. Sheepishly, she adjusts her balance to ensure her tail is kept well away from the flammable flesh of his massive body.

Suddenly, like a bird from a tree, the war-dragon takes flight. She-horse, comes her mental voice, her childish and reptilian name for mare. Instantly the behemoth is alert, all four hooves planting firmly upon the sod as Cynder circles above, using her superior eyesight to pick up the approaching stranger. Tyradon begins to move towards the newcomer, knowing it is better to be the instigator rather than risk being snuck up on. It is a mare, true to Cynder's word; naked of hideous horn or gruesome wing, black and scarred with a most curious skull-shaped marking on her face that the stallion's grey gaze snaps to immediately. As he always does when meeting someone new, he finds himself instinctively hunting for possible weaknesses to exploit in battle - a hand or so smaller than I, that right eye looks blind, scars indicate either a warrior or a careless fighter - and completes his silent assessment within the span of a second. He hardly even realises he is doing it, yet finds himself filing the mare's details away in his brain should he ever need to call on them. He has picked up this habit through years of fighting; everybody he meets is given the same swift look-over, to ensure he cannot be taken by surprise - unless, of course, she has any hidden magic that even Tyradon's keen eyes cannot detect.

His frigid gaze flashes downwards, to the two-tailed creature unlike anything the warbringer has ever seen before. He feels Cynder's innate curiosity and knows she is itching to get down to the kitsune, to sniff and prod him, but a firm mental word from the stallion warns her to keep well away. She completes another aerial circle then lands heavily on Tyradon's shoulders, peering eagerly around his thick neck and ensuring she keeps her flame-tail well away from igniting his mane. The mare's words reach the beast's ears, and a one-sided smirk flickers momentarily across his muzzle before being consumed by his usual thoughtful frown. "King, always," he says, his voice a baritone rumble that contains every inch of the authority his earth-shaking sire once possessed. "And you? Queen, or a man's plaything?" He scans her again, searching for any sign of distended stomach or swollen teats that may indicate she is somebody's broodmare.

But they are not alone for long - Cynder's head lifts to peer into the shadows, lips lifting to expose her serrated fangs as another approaches, and her posture only shifts when she sees that it is another equine. A stallion, this time, a paint with a white wolf-like creature at his heels. Cynder's claws dig deeper into Tyradon's scarred flesh as he feels her fighting against her natural urge to approach the queer creature and figure out what it is; before her regression, the behemoth would have had no qualms about letting her investigate, but she is no longer the fully-grown demon she once was. She is still growing, and he will not risk her being harmed. A soothing thought reminds her of this, and she relaxes into him, using her dextrous fingers to play with his mane whilst her yellow gaze idly flickers between the strange equines and their companions.

The stallion speaks, introducing himself and his bonded. "Tyradon, and this is Cynder," he says; he has to resist the desire to add Warbringer after his name, reminding himself that he is no longer that man. This is a new land, one where he will have to re-earn his title. Then the other speaks of safety, or lack of it, and the behemoth's attention is immediately snatched. He shifts his gargantuan frame to peer down at the younger stallion, another assessment swiftly completing itself inside his mind, and when he speaks there is evident authority in his masculine tones. "Be more informative, boy. Why is it not safe?" His voice is commanding, almost forgetting that he no longer possesses a crown, is no longer the general of his own army; he has been reduced to naught but a peasant, yet he cannot smother his inherent desire to bark orders and get things done.


Confutatis the World Eater Posts: 179
Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 9 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Mongrel :: Common Kitsune :: Dark Illusions wanda
#5
At first, she is not aware of the bizarre reptile who follows him- the newcomer's companion- rather, Confutatis absorbs herself in making studious and droll notes, which Mongrel regards with the greatest of contempt. It was a stallion, she determined, with her gaze flicking downwards (not at all slyly) towards his haunches, but she could have said that anyways: for he bore himself with the regal posture of royalty, an imposing line cut and shaped to his dark shoulders. The darkness of his coat is consumed by scars, thick gray tissue which has swallowed the ebon of his coat; and most strange of all, they are thickest on his withers and shoulders. Head tips eerily in mild curiosity-

And then she sees a dragon!
Lady Death jerks back, tension humming in the taut lines of shoulder and hip, lips peeling back in a half-snarl at the surprise he had dealt unwittingly to her. Of course, she had heard of dragons, yes, but she had not seen them before, not in all of her arduous travels. There was something altogether more shocking about seeing emerald scale and flame-tipped tail than she had expected. Thus, naturally, she is full of greed and jealousy, for him having a drakon at his hooves.

At her shifting hooves, Mongrel silently growls in protest, the rumble of his discontent reverberating through the rocky abysses and jagged landscape of her mountainous mind. Full of spite at how easily he was forgotten, despite having suckled off his companion's own blood and damned flesh, he lingers over the thought of unleashing the illusions he holds command over as Inari kin. He weaves it swiftly, a tapestry of death and gore and most of all, the shattering of dragons, holds it at the tangled edges of his oceanic mind, preparing to unleash it upon this horrid dragon- and then it fades, slithering away at sound of interruption.

They are distracted from that glittering green by the sound of his sonorous voice, reminiscent of thundering avalanches and crashing rock. They are silent, thinking of witty replies and clever metaphors in a matter of seconds... before they settle on the truth, which they do not share freely. "I would not allow any landless bastard to mount the daughter of Oblivion, preacher of death and destruction." Confutatis answers, an edge of a snarl creeping into her cracked tones. A long, slippery rope of acidic drool drips from her mouth, splattering the earth and giving a pleasant sizzle.

Interrupted they are, and Confutatis' ears pin in contempt, a sneer curling her lips at sight of the draft, so quick to crush and kill; and proffers her snarl of unwelcome. "Fool! The world is made of those who seize power and those who are content to wallow at the feet of the stronger!" Yet she is cut short by Tyradon, who offers name and demands answer. Nostrils flare in exasperation, and Mongrel's teeth snick together as he snaps his jaws threateningly (despite his most diminutive size.) Fucking interlopers. "Darkness." Lady Death answers, brows shifting low over her dual-colored eyes. "One that is not kind even to the likes of us," she adds slyly, a hint of simper in her tone.

"Follow me for safety."
Join the Regime.

Aaron Posts: 260
World's Edge Protector atk: 4.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 6 Years HP: 67 | Buff: NOVICE
Alanna :: Common Hellhound :: Energy Drain Emily
#6

 Aaron</style>
 i lit a fire that wouldn't go out.</style>

Aaron wanted to laugh as the mare spoke. What a little minx! But the name Oblivion.... The name set off alarms in the young knight's mind. Stories his mother had told him that her mother had passed down to her. This mare came from Isilme! Or at least her bloodline did. Either way, she was clearly not the sort that Aaron wanted to mix with. It seems the mare wants to cause trouble with those who urge to get to safety. Aaron's eyes watch as she drools. When it drops to the earth and sizzles he knows to stay clear of her bite. Her kitsune's antics are ignored by the pair, as there were more important things to handle. Alanna admired the green Looks like Suli. Her icy blue eyes fixed on the dragon. Relax, don't scare them The grasp of the dragon's claws was not unoticed. After all, when you come from a herd that was lead by the DragonHeart herself.... You noticed many things about dragons that others may not.

His attention was commanded by the new stud, Tyradon he said his name was. Tyradon and Cynder. He wanted to know why the woods were not safe. With a sigh Aaron opened his mouth to explain before the minx opened her mouth instead. With a roll of his eyes the bay and ivory warrior elaborated. Most call it the Darkness, for it was pitch black as it took over everything. Only safe places seem to be here and the caverns we are all currently calling home. Even then, there are those who fell to the darkenss and became wraiths. Don't get to close, they infect all they can.... Once again the black mare cut him off demanding the knight to follow her. Alanna growled and her fur stood on end. Something in the mare's tone told the hellhound all she needed. No good. Aaron agreed, but did not comment. Instead he simply said. All those who seek power eventually fall. Those who do not look for it, often find it and hold it a lot longer. History could prove that. Let's head to safety. Turning, Aaron made to move back towards the caverns, pausing to see if Tyradon and Cynder were going to follow them or the minx.

talk

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In Nomine Patris Et Filii
Et Spiritus Sancti

Please Tag Aaron in All Posts
Permission granted to use magic or physical force with Aaron at any time for any reason to any degree, with the exception of killing him.


Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#7



t y r a d o n

FIRE AND BLOOD!

The mare's assessment seems as thorough as his was, and a momentary expression of appreciation flashes across his battlescarred muzzle. She speaks, and recognition dances across the warlord's torn features. "The DemonKing," he says; it isn't a question so much as a statement. Oh, he has heard of that man, the bringer of misery who, at one stage, had half of Isilme gripped in his steel talons; long before Tyradon's time, of course, but his sire had spoken often of him - usually with disapproval that Oblivion chose to house with the horned and winged scum. But that wasn't the only tale the beast had heard of the skull-faced creature; his grandmother, Misery, had suffered a run-in with him during her early Isilmian days. She never spoke of it, not to her son or grandson, but her blue dragon Saphri shared the information with Cynder during their time in the wilderness, by way of explaining the Benevolent's terror of strange stallions. He told of an ill-fated meeting between the gentle giant and the skull-faced monster; of a time when he was but a hatchling, unable to defend her.

How Oblivion had taken her beneath him, forcefully. How he had broken her spirit and stolen her innocence without a backwards glance.

For one wild moment, the behemoth wonders if a child came from that hellbound union between giantess and demon; a secret, a bastard born of blood and fear. But he swiftly smothers the idea, as Terrador was convinced he and his twin sister were the firstborn foals of the Benevolent's womb. His emotionless grey gaze snaps to the drool that strings from the mare's mouth, hissing into the ground at her feet; magic. "I would expect no less," he says to her - what mare with sanity in her mind would choose to bed with any stallion who had no crown? Strong sire, strong foal; it was the simplest law of nature, one the beast had exploited time and time again as he sated his lusts between the willing thighs of women who worshipped the ground he walked on for his feats on the battlefield, and for the green war-dragon he had tethered to his mind. The primal act of reproduction was a reward, not a given right, a gift to those strong enough to seize it. It was for that reason that the warrior bore no ill-will towards Oblivion for what he had done to his grandmother, as he had simply been taking what was owed to him by his strength on the battlefield - Cynder hisses her disagreement, abhorring her bonded's sexist view on such matters. It is one area the linked pair disagree on, and Tyradon quickly shifts his mind away from the dangerous territory.

The mare speaks sense - the beast has always believed the same, that the world is carved into leaders and followers. He has always been a leader, and his feral gaze darts again over the skull-girl's face. "Which of those are you, daughter of Oblivion?" he asks, expression remaining stoic as he speaks in his deep, baritone rumble. The mare has snatched his attention, largely because he rarely meets such an authoritive member of the fairer sex - he is used to subservient females, hungry to do the bidding of their lord and protector, their only repayment being their undying loyalty and willingness to spread their legs at his command. He has never met a woman who could lead; never one he considers an equal, save for Cynder. This child of the DemonKing could challenge him, force him to re-evaluate his somewhat sexist beliefs, and already she has snatched his attention and clung to it like a bear trap.

His attention shifts back to Aaron. He speaks of darkness, of a spreading infection, and the only solace to be found in the depths of some caverns. The beast's nose wrinkles; he is not the sort to cower, like a rabbit waiting to be dug from his burrow. "And what is being done about this? Are you all content to quiver in your caves and wait for your home to be consumed?" Tyradon does not operate like that - he fights, he does not hide. The stallion speaks again, and the warbringer's eyes momentarily flash before returning to their passive grey hue. "No. Those who have leadership thrust upon them are poor kings, weak and indecisive rulers who care little for the crown upon their skull. The truest monarchs are those who are willing to fight and die for their cause, who seek control and seize it." The dominance is evident in his tone, and it takes a soothing caress of Cynder's mind to remind him that he is naught but a peasant here; he rules no longer.

Both equines offer an invitation, and the black beast's massive skull swings between them. The stallion is the safer option; he is likely familiar with the cave system, and he seems fairly knowledgable on Helovia's sickness. Yet the mare has intrigued him, not least in her links to Isilme; he detects a darkness in her, a lust for power that he can fully sympathise with. But he still knows little of either of them - he doesn't even know the devil woman's name, or that of her two-tailed companion. "Are you rulers, either of you? What interest do you both have in inviting me to your caverns? Are there herds here, or do you all simply exist for yourselves?" Before he makes any sort of decision, he needs to know as much as he can - he is not the sort of rash colt to enter anything blind, nor does he wish to accidentally ally himself with a herd with the wrong interests.


Confutatis the World Eater Posts: 179
Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 9 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Mongrel :: Common Kitsune :: Dark Illusions wanda
#8
Ears tip forward, curiosity pealing bright in her eyes, a sinister note of jovial companionship on the planes of her face; does he know Oblivion? He must have at least heard of her mighty father, the eater of d e a t h, the devourer of the living, the archangel. For there is recognition on Tyradon's face, burning black on black- mild inquisitiveness flickers within the empty cavity of her midnight chest, an avian-like tilt to her chiseled skull. "You have heard of him?" she asks cautiously. Surely he has not met him though? Confutatis did not know the fatal outcome of her father's war-mongering, did not know that he d i e d as a commoner would, but it nettled her to think of this behemoth meeting the DemonKing when she had been denied his luxuriously vile company.

Of other matters she offers no answer; the wild of his gaze chases over hip and curve, and she does not shake nor quiver as to proffer him something to look at. Her ears twist and slant back, wordless warning that she will not tolerate his ogling. As for his question, the hellion sneered, a cruel simper carved into the dark lines of her muzzle; as if she would answer such a question; as if one could not tell by the scars rippling over her coat and the raggedness of her audits and her clouded eye. "A thwarted Queen of Death, but I do my best at adumbration."

There is a hiss as her tail smacks over dark flanks, and a snarl of her mongrel creeping forward, vermilion eyes glistening in the shade.
Oh, he is angry, full of negligent malice and growing unease, a filthy film clouding his furious thoughts from her; she peers at him, a warning blossoming in the abysses of her labyrinthian mind; he had best not dare go there.

Corrupt indignation spreads across Confutatis' face, and the insolent smirk widens into a feral grin. She cannot help but feel elated at Tyradon's conviction, the elitist sentiment, in Her way, in His way. There is a kingly command in the rolling depths of his baritone voice (was he a lord? a warbound tyrant?) She is not consumed with thoughts of bearing children, nor do her thighs ache in such admirable presence; she leaves child-bearing and child-raising to her weakly sister, who serves better in foal labor than in battle, but Mongrel thinks. He thinks of death and blood and g o r e, of children raised by Death and Fire, a fickle wonder rising idle in the depths of his pious chest. Tail-tips twitch and he falls quiet, the yellow of craggy teeth hidden by folds of ebon skin. "You could be a king," she exhales, a ragged murmur which bends and folds in the air, a declaration of unknown heights- Confutatis, follow someone?

Or did she intend to simply ride on his fame, and claw him down from the throne when he Ascended?

"I will be," Confutatis grins, acid burning and sizzling at her foaming lips; "As of yet... the herds have decayed and shattered as the mice scurry to the safety of their holes in the dead soil. My interest, Tyradon, is in you surviving, for it would be a shame to see you fall to the undead." There is a shadow of something indecipherable in her eyes; a clouding of intentions, a scurrilous unhealthiness. "In Helovia, the feudal systems are ruined- but I intend to amend that; I intend to instill r e s p e c t of queens and kings, lords and ladies."


Sorry for the late reply! I tried so many times to write this post, but it wasn't coming until today.
Join the Regime.

Aaron Posts: 260
World's Edge Protector atk: 4.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 6 Years HP: 67 | Buff: NOVICE
Alanna :: Common Hellhound :: Energy Drain Emily
#9

 Aaron</style>
 i lit a fire that wouldn't go out.</style>

Quickly the young knight was finding these two were just power hungry idiots who learned nothing from the fall of Isilme. Alanna growled as her bonded's temper rose. Stupid power hungry, numbskulls. No. He would not lead the stallion to safety. To hell with him, and her for that matter. Let them both be attacked without the protection. Maybe they would make better wraiths than regular equines. I was a crafter, one of two head of my rank within the herd. His voice had turned icy cold. His eyes almost black. Alanna was the only one holding him from attacking the pair. She was older, maybe even stronger... But he would not risk her against dragon fire. Even if the dragon seemed young. It was to much a risk.

At long last he spoke again, his tone almost spitting at the pair. You talk of power as if it is everything. I've seen what happens to lands when those who live there become power hungry. Devoured by the dead. His eyes cut to the mare. Your sire was well known, and the land he tried to rule is now ruled by the dead. Isilme fell because of so much blood. You ever think of causing that to happen here, and many will rise to stop you. With nothing more to say to either, he turned, only pausing to wait for Alanna before setting off for the caves calling back over his shoulder. Good luck against the wraiths, you'll need it.

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In Nomine Patris Et Filii
Et Spiritus Sancti

Please Tag Aaron in All Posts
Permission granted to use magic or physical force with Aaron at any time for any reason to any degree, with the exception of killing him.


Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#10


t y r a d o n

FIRE AND BLOOD!

You have heard of him? A wry chuckle flees the beast's jaws, one lip lifting to display yellowed teeth. "He fucked my grandmother," he says, as casually as though he was commenting on the weather. Cynder growls, disgusted by how flippant her bonded is about the forced submission of a female, and a relative at that. The paladin himself has never taken a mare by force - he hasn't needed to - yet he cares little about those who do. There are far viler crimes, in his opinion - such as being born horned or winged. "His deeds were known throughout Isilme - every child of my generation knew his name." His father had known, too, and spoken often and with awe of the DemonKing's war crimes. Yet they were not crimes, as in times of battle anything goes.

His dragon continues to growl in the back of her throat at Tyradon's offhand admission of his grandmother's ordeal - it had been spoken of as a secret, not some fishwife's gossip to be spread at will. He reaches the tendrils of his mind into hers and soothes her, yet can feel how tense she is beneath his mental caress. The pair are closer than father and daughter, brother and sister, yet still they argue frequently and disagree on more things than the warrior cares to admit. Their minds are constantly in contact, but neither of them can crush the willpower or opinions of the other - nor would they try to. It is a relationship of equality, and their differing genders only add to their varying opinions on several matters. Tyradon has been raised to believe in male superiority, in the dominance of his gender and the fact he has the right to objectify women at will; Cynder comes from a species where the females are every bit as strong and glorious as the males, and finds her bonded's outdated views repugnant and offensive.

Blackened ears pivot to catch Confutatis' words, her declaration, and the warbringer's muzzle twitches in a simper. You could be a king. "I was," he says, voice barely higher than a murmur - he can almost feel the weight of a crown upon his scarred skull, the warmth of a throne beneath his hooves and hear the adoration of a hundred peasants in his greedy auds. His frigid gaze snaps to her lips, bubbling and frothing with an unknown substance; he wonders at the burn it would cause upon the body of a foe. He devours every word that comes from her acid-soaked mouth, his intrigue and curiosity growing by the second, yet his attention is once more stolen by the painted stallion. His ears flatten to his skull, lost in the tangled folds of his mane; foolish boy. "It is everything," he spits, eyes flashing like chips of flint. "Once your balls drop you will realise that true glory comes only from leading, not following. Any who try to stop the rise will be crushed - in Nieque's name I will see it happen." Cynder's anger shifts to Aaron and his hellhound, her flame-tipped tail thrashing back and forth like an angered cat. Tongues of fire lap at the stallion's scarred back, but he barely notices - a plume of smoke flees the war-dragon's nostrils and rises above their heads until it disappears into the darkness.

With a final snort of contempt, he looks back to the mare. "Show me the way, daughter of demons," he says, massive frame shifting in preparation to leave. He hungers to know more about her, about her plans - if indeed she has any, and she is not merely bluffing - and obligingly Cynder takes to the skies to scan ahead, her body a green flash in the heavens above them.



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