the Rift


make me bow

Déodat Posts: 174
Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx
#1

Déodat rolled his eyes at the mare with her false apologies and sneers. She was the embodiment of all things malevolent and foul. One could even think her a wraith trapped in a living body. What a delight it would be to toss the beast out into the cold with the monsters. It would be laughable to witness the demons dine on her and listen to her screams. The she-devil being devoured by devils, what an ironic death it would be. The Blood Prince was sad to realize he may never to see such a pleasant sight. Oh well, it would just leave the work of slaying the bitch to himself which would be a welcome task. He could shatter her bones and use her skull as a decoration for the cavern that had been home back at the Basin. Of course, the darkness would have to clear first and he realized he may never witness the cold mountains again. Being trapped in the underground would surely drive him into madness though.

“A queen huh? In the end the queen still has to bow to the king Confutatis.” Déodat mocked. In no way did he consider himself a king or anything above a foot soldier, but he wished to see the mare seethe with rage and roll in the fact she will always be nothing. “You glorify yourself to something you aren’t and something you never will be. All you are is the bastard of a forgotten warlord. You’re nothing Confutatis, and you will never rise above the squalor you were born into. You live in ignorance of what you truly are, and it’s truly a sad and sorry sight.”

Would he hate the mare so had she been born with a crown? It would always be a shame such a dark beauty like her had been wasted upon defective blood. Maybe then he wouldn’t hate her so, and maybe then she would be of more worth than a harlot used for one night’s pleasure. Crowned or not though, this mare was a monster and Déodat never welcomed wicked company if they weren’t an ally.

A declaration passed from her lips, one of war and he could see armor covering her. Was it truly made of bone? It shouldn’t surprise him that a monster like she would don such foul garb. “Alright, I will fight you.” He said nonchalantly. “Prove to me if you’re a queen Confutatis. Or are you just a bastard destined for rags and never riches?”

[Setting: The crystal cavern.
Continuation of this thread
Typical spar rules 3 posts + 1 final defense. Magic & companions all that.
You may have the first attack if you’d like Wanda
@[Confutatis]
I will only tag you this one time.]

"talk talk talk"

May angels protect you
[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
con by aihnna@dA




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
    Demonic in her sadistic intents, ugly in her rage; she advances, impetuous and cruel, towards the stallion of crimson and scarlet. Where he is cold and contained, she is wicked and wild. She is the damned, the mare doomed to the seven hells, a devil clothed in satire of midnight skin and bone, crowned with her evil and her ambition. Not a common slut to be used, a pretty whore to sell herself to the highest bidder, but a queen who would enslave and punish, leave behind her a trail of blood and desecration as she burned them all down.
    Who better to first taste her wrath than a boy dressed in blood?

   Her eyes are feral in her wordless fury, jaw working itself to a sullen ache as her lips lather with acidic foam, dripping and bubbling. Does he see her darkness? Does he not see her craze, her unwillingness to bend to the punishing punch of his words, that she was COMING FOR HIM when the sun went down and no-one was around to protect his idiotic pride? The stallion thought himself better than her, but nobody was, nobody could be. Mortal flesh could not withstand her presence, hearts withered and shrank from her wicked touch and the taste of her black magic- he would be no different. She would knock on his windows, tear down his door, and watch him squirm and scream beneath her while she shattered his ribcage and rended his puny heart from dripping chest.

   How she despises Déodat's mockery- so she did not get to mount like a stallion did, she had to sit under the weight of thrusting hips- did this make her any lesser of a warrior, of a ruler? Still she had teeth and hooves, the wickedness of her vile sorcery. She had borne herself through the pains of childbirth, and any mare who had gone through that knew that no amount of pain on the battlefield could compare to expelling a foal from the womb. FUCK him and his beliefs.
   “Sexist bitch,” she snarls, her voice full of poison, writhing like snakes if the reptiles were sounds. “I am the daughter of demons, the crawl of unseen monsters in the shadows. You do not play with bitches and devils; YOU RUN AWAY.

    The bones of her family press against her ribs and haunches.
    They are here with her, even if others have forgotten them.
    The hellion vows in silence to uphold their name; she will be defeated no longer. Today she would arise victorious, and this unicorn would take back his insults. The Demon Days may be over, but they would come again, one step at a time.

    Poisonous orbs slit as he speaks easily- ooh, all right, I'll fight you (as if you had any fucking choice, stupid little dick she thinks to herself)- as if he is simply shrugging off her heinous taunts and biting challenges. Did he not realize she was a weathered mare of war? No matter if he did not take her seriously. Once she stripped him bare of muscle and the intricate mappings of veins he would find himself regretting his oh-so-casual indifference.
    Her Mongrel stays behind her as she steps forwards, a royally slow progression. It is magic Confutatis focuses on, rather than attacking immediately. The magic of rot is always there, a seething force of malignant energy, shifting waves which vary in size of the area it encompasses, but never reaching past a radius of five meters. A slight sweat breaks out over oily shoulder and neck as she concentrates; the sorcery is difficult and tedious to maneuver, reluctant to obey her demands, preferring to crawl and slither over nothingness and to nibble at the flesh of small, scurrying creatures. There is a presence to it, a living sense of death, and she lets out gentle sigh as it wraps around her, curling close to her obsidian flesh, yet not quite touching her charcoal skin.

    Eyes flick up towards dear Déodat, lips curling into a vindictive leer that is terrifying to behold. Lady Death stands, hopefully face-to-face as they had been just moments ago, a couple of meters away; and then charges, hooves clattering on the crystal floor, ears twisted and pinning to knotted mane, aiming to move to his left side. If successful, she hopes to twist her cranium over his haunches to bite down on the end of the spine, towards his tail, while simultaneously swishing up her tail, aiming towards his face to give him a stinging bitch slap.

    She hopes he likes her poison kisses to be lavished upon his scarlet body; soon he will not need to appear red as blood, because he will be covered in gore.
    How was that for irony?




1/3
WC: 800
Summary: Brings her magic 'into' her so unless he touches her skin, he will not begin to rot. Activates poison mouth magic. Charges to his left, her right, aims to bite down on his croup, tail swinging up to hopefully swat him in the face.
Join the Regime.

Déodat Posts: 174
Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx
#3

The harlot was enraged by his idle comments. A satisfied smirk passed over his lips as he hurled out petty names. Racist, sexist, he had heard it all really. Such names meant nothing to him. He let her prattle on and for once he held his tongue. Truly Confutatis’s banter was wearing thin on his patience. How he hoped this mare was everything she claimed to be. Maybe he had finally found a worthy opponent amongst the rats of the earth. Let her show that she was the queen she said she was. Though he vowed to himself, conquered or not, he would not bow to the worthless whore. Whether his blood stained the stones beneath him or not mattered little. It would be a display of power and not of weakness. If the Blood Prince was to die, he would die the warrior he had been raised up to be. He would die like his father, fighting to the end and powerful. Being outnumbered hadn’t stopped the General from fighting a futile war. It hadn’t even stopped Déodat to conjure up a final stand. Hopelessness and fear were no stranger to his heart. This war would be for the comrades who bled out at the hands of skyrats and commoners. This war was for his family, both blood and the Basin.

No movement came from Confutatis, and Déodat watched and waited for her to strike. Memories flashed through his mind of the equines, the cowards who broke their vows and allegiances. Passionate hatred sweltered up inside as he continued to gaze at the mare before him. A hatred not felt specifically toward his foe, but the entire race itself. They were worthless and defective. They were all liars and serpents, waiting for their chance to stab you in the back. Confutatis epitomized every aspect of their disgusting kind. She was everything that had turned upon his clan. Everything in this world that needed to perish.
There battle began, and the mare looked upon him with a look that would make any child bolt in terror. All the passion trapped inside his very essence upon his face. It was a glower, a glare that revealed loathing, rage, and a determination. Her hooves clattered against the stones and they were a song of an oncoming battle. They were two titans who would make a clash that would transcend time.

The Blood Prince moved, not wasting anymore time. He pushed himself toward the right, out of the way of the oncoming mare. Several strands of her tail struck against his neck and did nothing more than cause a slight sting. The first blow a miss and a part of him wished to taunt and jeer at the mare, but it was only the beginning. There was time for her to not only redeem herself, but come back with a crushing fire. Déodat knew full well that what kind of power may lay behind the dark beauty, and there would be no mercy after his harsh words and tongue.

Déodat turned and began to charge after Confutatis, hoping to come up alongside the mare’s right. His hooves clattered against the stones as he attempted to draw nearer to the mare’s right shoulder. He tried to ease his way closer and closer toward the mare’s right shoulder, and he then thrust his weight towards her and attempted to shove his weight into her. Sure, Confutatis was far from short, but he knew he still held the advantage of superior height and perhaps even strength. But there wouldn’t be jumping to any conclusions of course. Should his first blow strike, Déodat then hopefully charged ahead of the mare and flung his hind legs upward in a buck, hoping to strike her chin. Shattering her pretty little face, what a delightful thought it was. Déodat could envision perfectly the blood that would be staining the ground and it would be a sweet sight to behold.

[WC: 659
1/3
Summary: Déodat charges after Confutatis, aiming to come along her right and shove his shoulder into hers. And then attempts to move in front of her, and bucks, hoping to hit his hooves against her chin.]

"talk talk talk"

May angels protect you
[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
con by aihnna@dA




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
#4
    She seethes, poison and ruin ensnared and entrapped within the confines of her skin black as sin; perhaps this is what makes her foolhardy, so wild and feral as to forget her calculations and tactics. Heedless of what she should do and what she should not, she charges, without thought for where to aim, how to prepare for his response, how to counter-attacker his attacks; there are the reverberations of her hooves on glass and diamond, the rattle of her dry lungs, the storms of ebony cloud and silver lightning that curl and cradle around her foul heart. It is not good enough. What does she see but the blood prince, cloaked in scarlet and snow, evading her; she tries, oh she tries, to twist, to change her assault, but to no avail- she is, alas, doomed in this regard.

It rages through her, winter winds through the crags of her mountainous mind, howling loud as the wolves, snarling and snapping around nook and cranny; failure. Contempt and disdain writhes in the soulless hollow of her empty ribcage- how dare she bring shame to the name of her distant fathers, the Womanizer and Demon King? She was their daughter, and it was not only her right but her duty to prove them proud, to reinforce their might and strength into the minds of the mortal men; she was the beast beneath their beds, the monster in the closet, the simmering eyes in the darkness; she must trim and cut her obsidian shape into perfect form; she was to be a quean, and losing to a lowly crimson lord would be prohibited.

   Yet here Confutatis was, not landing a singular blow upon the dapper hide of his.

   Unlike Déodat, upon her failure of a charge she does not halt; she slows from gallop to canter, wary of the treacherous footing underneath her. Each step is picked with care, lest her keratins slip out from beneath her, which would be not only a humbling embarassment but something of which would incline her to failure (which she will NOT tolerate, not from this mangy hornheaded cur- she would fuck her companion before that happened.) The mare's nares widen, and she drinks in the musky air- she hears the tattoo of his hooves behind her, the drums of war, and she lets drift a wicked smile over her lips. Does he truly think to outrun her? He is fat and tall, a broadsword, whereas she is slim and graceful as a knife between his ribs; she wants to know how close he'll come, and she slows as the passage narrows ahead, letting him come tantalizing near to her hips- she wonders if she is in heat, for her thighs are aching and all she can smell is him and winter.

   Hooves dig into the glossy surface of the floor, and she slithers to ungraceful halt, ducking down her cranium and lashing upwards with her hind legs, towards his face and mouth full of pretty white ivories. He would not look so handsome when he found himself missing a tooth or two, she was confident- and that was rather good, because she abhorred him and all the sultry attractiveness to his artistic musculature. Alongside the simple pleasure of imaging his jagged ruined teeth, she well remembered the pain the Merciful had dealt her with a crushing blow to her skull; the crack as the bones beneath her sleek pale face fractured beneath the weight of the damage. A split skull was no laughing matter- it was a month of headaches and gritted teeth, a month of lingering and lurking in dark shadows and hoping the throbbing would go away sooner rather than later.
   A scandalous grins flowers on her lips at the thought of the bastard brought to his knees in agony.

   Her mongrel is not useless as she plays a sly game of catch-me-if-you-can; he creeps and scuttles along the crystalline walls, all glimmering eyes and bared teeth, weaving and painting images of devious intent; but not yet, it would not happen yet, he would keep his nightmarish illusions in hand until his compatriot bequeathed him of it or was in need.

   Hallucinations, however, are little compared to the Queen Bitch's own sorcery: nefarious tendrils of magic that curl and crawl out from the bucking mare, drawn towards flesh, veils of rot and ruin aiming to desecrate and destroy, devour and annihilate the succulent flesh. Would he scream? He had not screamed before- but then she had not been so angry, so full of justified fury; before she had not wanted to peel back his skin and caress the inner working of organ and heart, to slather his ribcage in the poison of her mouth and crack down on bone and chew on sinew.




2/3 + 0/1
WC: 800
Summary: Since Confutatis has a higher speed stat than Deo, I played it where he could not catch up until she slowed; she then bucked upwards towards his face/chest, while her companion prepares his illusions. As she bucks, she releases her decay magic towards him, in hopes it will rot any part of him.
Join the Regime.

Déodat Posts: 174
Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx
#5

The bitch was quick, he reluctantly had to give her credit to that. As he drew closer to the harlot her perfume of death and decay wafted towards his nostrils. What had ever possessed him to get lost in a passionate lust for this whore? She smelled as foul as she looked(of course, he was in deep denial of his opinion’s of the mare’s outward appearance, but that wasn’t weighing heavily upon his mind). The narrow hallway wasn’t enough to drive him toward the mare, instead he found himself driving straight toward the wall as he thrust himself. In an attempt to pull himself from the bejeweled wall, he tried to veer to the left slightly. Instead of open space, he felt his right shoulder shoulder collide with hoof. A grunt of pain escaped from his lips as his hooves hit the stones with a loud clack. There was no hesitation as he drove onward toward the mare, craving blood to fill wet his tongue and stain his lips, the crimson liquid would be his wine and he intended to get drunk on it.

Déodat veered himself toward the mare and came toward at her, this time at a canter rather than a gallop. Pain shot through his shoulder with each movement, but he attempted to persevere through it all. It was nothing in comparison to what he had felt before on the battlefield. A mere bruise would be a minor wound in comparison to what he planned to unleash upon Confutatis. If it were up to him, her head would roll, and be presented before the lord and lady as a trophy to mount upon their wall. The Blood Prince drove himself closer toward the mare, but what he faced was unlike anything that had touched his flesh before. That foul magic of hers had been unleashed. It crawled up his legs and to his breast. Sheer agony that felt like fire ran through his skin, he could feel it dying. There had been enough decay upon his flesh. Though he had stopped for what felt like a whole century as the death magic tickled his skin(really it had been mere seconds.)

A new fury lit his eyes as he looked up at the mare. Rage he hadn’t felt in nearly two years consumed him. It was the hatred he had felt toward the stallion that had vanquished his father. It was the hatred he had felt toward the equines that turned their backs upon his clan. The loathing within his eyes was the passion felt toward every enemy or demon that had ever entered his life. All of the blaze would be unleashed upon this mare, and Déodat had every intention of her being completely burned.

The Blood Prince was a berserker now, and as he drove himself toward the mare he released a violent scream, paying no mind to her companion that lay in wait to strike. His focus was on her and her alone. Déodat drove himself closer toward the mare hopefully facing her right and as he attempted to draw closer and closer, he lowered his horn and tried to swipe it down her neck with a force, hoping to drive his sword deep into her tainted flesh. As he turned his neck he attempted to turn his body and smash into her right side as aimed to come along her.

[2/3
569 words]
"talk talk talk"

May angels protect you
[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
con by aihnna@dA




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
#6
    There was no shriek of agony, no wail of torment; her heart sinks a little, and she wishes she could glance over a shoulder, to see if he had been struck dumb or if perhaps the wave of black magic had simply slithered right by him. The sorcery had seemed to work, as the wolf could feel the nefarious magic drinking her reserves of energy, leaving each step a little harder to take and each clack of hoof on perilous diamond floor more wearisome, and yet there was no rewarding cry of pain. It was a rather atrociously horrible thought to think- what if her magic had simply deflected off him? Was he impervious to the blemishes that would kiss and caress his wine skin and paint him red with the true form of blood? No, surely that could not be so; she had used it on him immediately prior to their game of bruises and smacking bodies, watched the art appear on the red canvas that was his coat.

   It is only the reassurance of her mongrel that keeps her from doing something foolish, like swinging her cranium back only to no doubt shift her balance and allow him to get in an easy blow. She feels it, the keening pressure of his mind on her's, a promise that indeed gangrene and infection sprang into life on Déodat's ruby pelt; and she takes comfort in the fact, her heart skipping a beat as she envisions his face contorted and writhing at the damage she dealt single-handedly to him. Even despite the exhaustion that begins to weigh down hip and neck, she glories in the triumph, revels in her skill, primps and feeds her ego; ha, she was defeating him, look at him, was he so proud now when he was unable to land hoof or horn on her scarred corpse?

   Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a blurred smear of scarlet hair breezing by; her jaw props open, astonished at the spurt of speed that had allowed him to charge ahead of her. Teeth then snap shut, grinding together, ears pinning to neck- she would not allow this little lordling to rule over her, she would not allow him to float through this fight as if it were something he did every day. She was the wolf, descended from the Womanizer and the Demon King, Morgue and Oblivion; she was the union of two mighty bloodlines, and she would show Helovia their wrath by every breath she took and every beat of her pounding heart.

   Hooves crack down on glittering floors as she begins sliding to a halt as the unicorn turns back to face her, glittering violet horn thrusting forwards to her neck. No; he will not have the satisfaction of touching her, even in violence. Her sinful pelt was far too good for the likes of dogs such as him- he would have to lust from afar, drool as she stalked by, a decayed stallion who could never have the honor of her loins.
   Instead, she drives herself at the wall, the wall glittering with diamonds and crystals of unknown origin.

   She is not moving as fast as she could have been, luckily; instead of completely winding up a mess of bruised meat and exposed muscle, the infinite crystals grate and scrape against her left side, still peeling back numerous layers of skin. One particularly large ruby catches her on the hip, and her eyes squeeze shut, immediately pulling away from the side of the hallway. Confutatis' breath grates a little too quickly in her chest- but surely she cannot be tiring so soon? The fight has only just begun, after all. Yet with every step, her left side is stinging at best, and parts of her curvaceous body that took on the majority of the damage hurts in particular, the shoulder and hip; the injuries she has brought upon herself scorches and burns, the hundreds of nerve endings bitching to no end about the abuse she has bestowed upon them.

   The yako shares in her pain, being bonded to her (whether he likes it or not); it is now he launches his attack, with visions spun of lust and love, of the unicorn stallion mounting the wolf, horn torn from skull, all bleeding eye sockets and dripping nostrils; he hopes to catch Déodat off-guard, and give his compatriot a moment to recover.

   But she refuses, she abhors the idea of needing a 'break' from the battle.
   As her foe turned back to come alongside her, she cowkicks towards his left hind hock; immediately following this, she lunges at the eye and ear nearest to her (his left), hoping to grab onto the precious indigo eye and steal from him his vision.




3/3 + 0/1
WC: 798
OOC: I hope I dealt with all the attacks appropriately, I wasn't 100% sure about what Deo was doing at the end :3
Join the Regime.

Déodat Posts: 174
Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx
#7

Déodat saw himself drawing nearer and nearer to the harlot. Rather than strike her he found nothing but air. The mare threw herself against the wall. Cowardice! This mare called herself queen yet she couldn’t take a blow. She raved of his inferiority yet didn’t hold the balls to face him. Confutatis was nothing more than a dog trying to play the part of a wolf. The mare had her black magic and deathly kiss, but that wasn’t true strength. One day his horn would rip her head from her neck and it would be mounted up on a spike, and he would have it paraded around and they would herald of Confutatis the Cowardice Queen, the Harlot. Her name would be cursed and ridiculed, her spawn would hide their face and shame, denying their bloodline, that much he would ensure.

As the Blood Prince drove by his desired victim, visions filled his gaze, of himself and the succubus. He came to a halt, unsure of what precisely was unfolding before him. Was this truth or lie? Future or false? Disgust and confusion consumed him as he lost himself into the sights before him, for a long moment his mind lost to what precisely had been happening just moments before him. Finally he grabbed a hold of himself and pulled himself back into reality right as Confutatis made her strike. He felt her hooves strike into his left thigh, a wave of sharp pain shot through his body and that familiar rage of his returned. There was a hornless to be vanquished and he had gotten lost in images of foul lust and mutilation of his body. Never again would he let himself be so taken off guard.

As Confutatis came in with her teeth, Déodat jerked his head to the right to save his precious eye. There was pride in battle scars, but the Blood Prince had no desire to adapt his fighting style to a new disability, he would like to keep his body as in tact as possible thank you very much. After his face was safely away from the mare’s hungry draws, he flung his shoulder toward her, aiming for her chest or neck, it was a last stitch effort as his breaths were coming in ragged and worn. The portions of his legs that had faced decay were still stinging and he knew not how well they would heal. There would be another day to seize the wily harlot, with his physical state he accepted that this would not be the day he would slay the demon queen.Not long after he flung his shoulder at the mare, he swung his head toward her left side, hoping to slice just about anything with his horn, at the very least he would make her blood spill.

[3/3
469 words
@[Confutatis] ]

"talk talk talk"

May angels protect you
[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
con by aihnna@dA




Official Posts: 847
Administrator
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
Official
#8
Past 3 weeks, default win to Deodat! 0.5VP awarded.


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