 OBERON
We must be killers, children of the wild ones. The frozen silence of a winter’s aurora gave away at the sound of the pristine snowpack’s defiance under the weight of my iron coated hooves, iced trees sagging under the weight of a fortnight’s snowfall. Dulcet beams cascaded through lush tree stems and glazed vapours, a sea of a night’s stars swaying in the snow as I progressed on sable shanks. A drizzle of white carpeted the forest floor, only to be tainted by the disposal of archaic woodlands tall as castle walls. What'd allured me into the endless steppes of verglas had begun to fade like a memory of yesterday’s dinner, murmuring, but not quite strumming on the strings of my consciousness.
The days had begun to grow tedious tens of miles ago, alabaster clad redwoods greeting me far too jovially as my eyelids slid open at the crack of every dawn. Wafting currents of smoulder rose from crinkled nostrils at my every breath, even the salutations of the sun could not mellow the chill of the northern breeze. Was there no end to this mundane topography of monotony? I'd far too long ago passed the threshold of retracing the trail I'd left behind, but found no satisfaction in continuing the endless rode of nothingness I had initially set out on. Yet, I had to keep moving one direction or another.
A sigh escaped the cavity of my chest, quickly replaced by a snort not far from the malignant kind. Bloody ‘ell. Now what? Standing dumbstruck in the halo of sunbeams I must surely have been a sight for eyes, pelt matt from the obsidian winter coat that had crept upon me and dried, salted sweat. I arched my neck; the crew cut mane of mine wobbling to either side of my crest. This place deserved a proper cursing by the best ability of my extensive vocabulary of profanities, but before I was able to complete swearing worthy of a damn trooper, sunrays flicker at the corner of my eye and my string of attention shatters as rapid as they assembled.
| Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5 |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 9 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Mongrel :: Common Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
wanda |
His sibilant whispers, seeking oceans of malice curling through the knotted forests of her mind, is an unwelcome interruption to the monotony of her thick thoughts. The harlot shoves Mongrel's consolations and warning away; teeth gnash and grit together in deepening frustration. I am sick, the hellion tells the kitsune; I do not want to take part in riddles of the tongue. Yet he is persistent, caressing her sullen cranium with figurative fingers, curling around her charcoal legs, the oil of his fur soothing, but despite all his assurances, she can feels the thorny barbs of his impatience. The fool yako thinks she brought this upon herself- ha! As if she chose to get sick!
Pressure builds behind her eyes.
Ears pin.
Today is not a good day to run into the vassal of ruination and rot. Slowly, balance slightly skewed, she begins to pick her way over the drifts of snow. The cold is not a particularly bad one, but it's quite enough to put her into an irritable mood; brows furrow down over her eyes as she moves with rather less grace than usual, every sound of her hooves crunching through snow making her wince. Her head pounds; she feels sore, everywhere, that kind of sick ache a victim of the flu gets deep in their muscles; her ashen tail flicks grimly over ebony flanks. How she hates this little feeling, a feeling she is unaccustomed to: a sensation of futile uselessness, the want of laziness.
Fuck if she would let such a thing as illness get in her way.
She picks up a trot, jarring her cranium with every stride, the rasp of her nostrils particularly louder than usual. Yellow fluids, thick and copious, run from her nostrils, freezing in the frigid air of winter. Nonetheless, she grinds her jaw and bears it, following her yako towards the stallion he indicated meeting.
They draw closer, and she slows, breath a little hoarse, audits circumnavigating towards the black shape in the woods ahead. For a moment she lingers, unwilling to draw closer, before she slinks and sidles her way.
"I am Confutatis," she says, wearily. "Welcome to Helovia."
♛ THE REGIME ♛
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BackgroundLabs.com
OBERON
We must be killers, children of the wild ones. Viscerally I cock my head towards the craxy sound of snow crumpled beneath hooves, before the sound hesitates and stop. There’re two things I can smell within a hundred feet; a woman and a good bottle of scotch. This was not the better option. I squint through blinds to catch a glimpse of her, but all I get is a vague silhouette. At least she has a good-looking outline, like the kind that leads to a funeral. It holds true that unless you find her in a cemetery, never trust a woman. Not that I’m particularly cynical by nature, (that can be discussed) but expect the worst and impending ‘surprises’ will be less inclined to bite you in the arse. I've got the teeth marks to prove it, if you know what I mean.
A smirk nurtures at the corners of my lips. Black dusted and compact, a biscuit with legs for hours. A gal you knew the first time you met her that you’d be seeing her too often. Not that she was all that fetching, just a nice little mouse that made you want to go home and test all your mouse traps. Puffed- and red-eyed she had certainly been under the weather lately, a real shandivang. That or found my stash of older … liquids of my liking. I could certainly relate.
I am Confutatis. She says, her voice sounding gentle, but so does ‘Vesuvius’ if you say it fast enough. Better not keep the woman waiting for too long, nothing good ever came of that. With a sweet half-pirouette worthy of a circus ballerina on a string I face the damsel in distress, chest puffed and muscles flexing for her sole entertainment. Welcome to Helovia. The welcome committee, eyh? “Well thank you lassie. Name’s Oberon.” Float like a butterfly, sting like a hurricane of mutated wasps.
OOC; Thank you for your patience! So, erhm .. I tried to incorporate his welsh-ish accent and a more film noir chain-smoking-detective-with-legs-on-table, mobster kind of style to see if that would fit him. I hope to get the hang of him eventually. Any comments are appreciated! Cx @[Confutatis]
| Up For Adoption |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.1 :: 3 Years Buff: NOVICE |
| Semper |
CYRUS
In all chaos, there is calculation.
The week or two that the worshiper of the Sun god had spent back in the lands of his birth had treated him quite well despite the thick layers of snow that blanketed the earth. Already the muscles gained during his travels outside the lands of Helovia were beginning to bulk up in anxious awaiting for Birdsong, not that there was really anything the golden stallion was waiting for come Birdsong other than feeling the warmth of his chosen god against his back.
But for now Cyrus would have to deal with the ivory powder and constant ice that littered the ground he walked upon. Snorting the young stallion stretched out his unmarked limbs moving easily into a gallop as he headed back towards the Threshold where Tyradon and the jaded dragon recruited him to the band of outcasts called the "Regime". Normally, Cyrus wasn't much of a large group lover, but considering the mission that the band had he couldn't refuse the offer. The group was one set on the empowerment of equines, allowing the more superior species to rise to the top of the food chain where they belonged the whole time. And it was ran by a large black stallion and a poisonous looking mare who spat acid unlike anyone he had ever met before.
It didn't take as long as expected for his daggers to tear into the soil made soft by the dead pine shats from the year before, signalling that he was now in the Threshold that a week or so ago he himself had been standing in waiting impatiently for whatever was to come along and whisk him off his hooves into their homes. Tossing his crown into the air the stallion's stride began to slow from a canter into a quick walk as his dark harks danced about, listening for any voices that could be considered interesting enough to intrude on the conversations. "I am Confutatis, welcome to Helovia." The weary and ailed lyrics of his reject Queen reached the spinning harks, causing a pique of interest to flash through his already curious mind. Turning in the direction of Confutatis' voice the stallion's handsome features broke out in a mischevious grin that was quickly becoming his trademark. Along with the term "troublemaker".
Just as his frame was breaking through the snow laden branches of the many trees who found a home in the entrance to Helovia, the deeper lyrics of a stallion broke through the near silence. “Well thank you lassie. Name’s Oberon.” His baritones were laced and adorned with an accent of sorts that the golden stallion couldn't quite put a name on, and he had just finished speaking as Cyrus made his grand entrance into the clearing. Pulling his limbs to a halt a few feet away from the acid scarred mare his teal pools inspected the midnight stained stallion, taking in the odd markings and piercingly pale orbs that decorated his being.
Clearing his throat without removing the smirk from his smoky kissers the stallion tilted his skull and nodded at the dark mare who stood not far from him. "Looking beautiful as ever m'Lady." His smirk grew ever so slightly as he spoke to the mare, she wasn't your normal beauty, but something about the strength that oozed out of every pore was enough to attract any stallion. And scare them shitless. Even the stallion's like Cyrus who had a bit of a sexist side couldn't help but appreciate the power that Confutatis carried. Sending a sideways glance at the strange stallion, Oberon, Cyrus rolled his shoulders and turned to face the creature. "Like the lady said, welcome to Helovia. I am called Cyrus." His voice rolled like honey from his tongue, his usual charm hiding the asshole that rested not far under the surface.
"Speech"
Tagged;; @[Oberon] && @[Confutatis]
Words;; Six Hundred and Thirty Nine
OOC;; Figured I would toss him in here. Even though you both write stunningly and put my work to shame. I hope you don't mind Wanda, I made it seem as if they had met before since he is a part of the Regime
| 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 |
Lizard-yellow eyes watch him; they weigh heavy, matching the flexing line of her jaw hard and firm. The sloe mare sidles closer, hips swaying in a whoreish fashion, yellowed liquid dripping from her nostrils- and it is fatally clear, even despite the dull glare of her ill-boding eyes, that she is a demanding presence, a powerful one, decay emanating and dripping from oiled pores, slithering over soil and blankets of snow, creeping malice and sleuthing shadow. She studies him, the firm lines of inky skin stretched tight over compact muscle; the skeletal lines of bone white; and the viridan poison of his orbs. Throat grates as she swallows, nares flaring raggedly, pitch shutters sweeping over cavernous and desolate expanses of yellow and white. "I am not a lassie," the wolf allows, skull face rigid, monstrous; ivories bare in gruesome grimace, wicked warning of her intolerance for impunity and disrespect. "Predators do not listen to blatant backtalk of backwater boys."
Her mongrel gives her warning of the impending sun-child, the glint of copper-gold on snow-white, the grass of Cyrus' youthful eyes. An ear twitches to the cavorting kitsune, who plays beneath the trees out of reach out of her black magic; he who watches while she plays her games and lies her lies.
It is as such that she is not surprised to hear the crackle of hoof on snow, his warm scent on the breeze, boiling in the winter cold. What she does not expect is compliments and sickly flattery; the old harlot might have been appeased by a gilded tongue, but she had been reborn from her failures and her shortcomings, to be reborn in shadow and ash to a legacy of rot. Her head twists upwards, ears pinning to neck, lungs singing a death rattle as she inhales, turning her skull to face him, impetuous and cut of black marble, abhorrent eyes resting on silver mane and pretty face: "A dragon has no time to waste on laudatory lies from a sheep," she snarls, voice dripping with her contempt, her disdain and ridicule; "We do not slander about beauty of beasts, child, and you would do well to learn of that."
The shadow queen, crowned ruler of nothing but seething masses of dogs and bitches, again shifts her cranium, yellow eyes coming to rest on Oberon, as he had introduced himself. There is a tilt to her skull, sinister and wicked, and her smile is worse- a crawling thing of sin and violation. "Does the shadow interloper intend to find a place to rest his head, or would he go on his way to be devoured by soft-hearted paladins and weak-kneed cravens?"
♛ THE REGIME ♛
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OBERON
We must be killers, children of the wild ones. I have to admit it, this gal gave me the creeps from here to wherever Helo-what-now ended. She has this sultry look, like a cat about to eat her young. I am not a lassie. One thing was damn sure, I wasn't about to ask her for some bloody cream. For my own safety and with the help of a little experience, I keep my mouth shut as she erratically decides to sidle closer. Predators do not listen to the blatant backtalk of backwater boys. That sounds like one hell of an insult coming from the mouth of this gal, naturally I would take offense if I bloody knew what it meant. But hey, you gotta appreciate a woman with a little teeth. Me-ow.
I only get so far before the mare distorts her attention, and it's only after a while I catch the sight of a bronzed stallion as he drifts through the clearing like the smoke from a fired barrel; out of darn nothing and some air. Never leaving lassie out of my sight; you know, just in case she decides to take a bite, I merely watch him as he inches closer to her. Two is a company, three’s a crowd was apparently nothing this bloke had ever heard of. With a scrutinizing gaze mixed with a little piss-off-will-yah I study him as they, seemingly familiar with each other, exchange a few quick courtesies that I don’t really pick up on. I seem to have a habit of coming short of caring, I think it's called nonchalance.
Sometimes I can’t help, but enjoy mornings like these though. The only drawback is that they come at such an inconvenient time of the day. Like this sober looking bronco over here, staring at me like some guy feeding arsenic to his rich aunt. I nevertheless, out of some needless necessity called manners, flash him a short-lived grin of acknowledgement.
Does the shadow interloper intend to find a place to rest his head, or would he go on his way to be devoured by soft-hearted paladins and weak-kneed cravens?" I cock my head at her with a questioning glance, a smolder stretching ever so slightly at the edge of my chops. Was it just me or did that sound .. suggestive? “Depends on the proposal.”
OOC; So sorry for the looong delay! @[Confutatis] @[Cyrus]
| 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 |
Her amber gaze settles on charcoal skin, running up the pale mask of his face; he is not so different, in appearance, than herself... although she is altogether more terrifying, with lips of dripping spittle spotted with scarlet blood from the bleeding sores inside her mouth, with her predatory eyes, with the macabre skull that dances on her soot skin. She is scarred and weathered by war and battles, both failed and successful, but it does not make her any less savage, any less determined; she is hungry for vengeance, starved for victory, and she wonders if he was just a weak-kneed traveler or if he had steel and blood and iron in him.
Somehow she can't quite see it, but why does it matter? The wolf would make a man out of him in either case.
Mongrel dissents, unwilling to acknowledge potential or lack of in this stallion- prey is what he thinks, tender ebony flesh and scrumptious red meat. The yako likes the taste of horse; the wolf does not discourage it. When they march to the rhythm of the war drums, it would be good to have a fox starved for the equine carrion... sometimes, she wondered if she herself should try, but even as a demon daughter, a harlot, a bitch, she could not muster it to become a cannibal as well (even if the title did sound lovely to her- Confutatis the Cannibal.)
He speaks, in that thick accent of his she does not recognize being unaccustomed to any language but the one she speaks, and the hellion draws herself tall, nostrils flaring wide and tulip ears flicking forward; she looks abhorrent, beastial, wicked, verging on the edge of immortal or godly; ah, but she is a GOD, she is death and rot incarnate, no matter if the deities of Helovia would acknowledge her power or not. Would he dare turn down the demon with ichor in her veins? No, she would think not; and now she only has to extend the mantle of the sword, and he WILL take it or risk her wrath and the poison of her sweetly cruel lips.
"Yes," Confutatis, the reaper, the queen of skulls, the demon daughter, declares; "you will come to the Regime, embrace your brothers and sisters, and you will keep word of the new rule secret. Enemies are all around us, but with us, you will be safe, you will have a reason, a purpose in life." The Sovereign's song is full of guile and deceit, sincerity and ambition.
"Join us."
♛ THE REGIME ♛
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OBERON
We must be killers, children of the wild ones. "Yes, you will come to the Regime, embrace your brothers and sisters, and you will keep word of the new rule secret. Enemies are all around us, but with us, you will be safe, you will have a reason, a purpose in life.” Any lingering grin slowly faded away as the altitudes of my eyebrows increased. Was I supposed to be impressed with the amount of will she could cram into one sentence? There I’d be just another guy in the chorus, and my days as a choir boy was over..
You speak the language of lies Queen of Spittle, fluently. “Safety is an illusion for the hunted. What’s in it for me?” Voice so husky it could be mistaken for a sled dog on a leash. Loyalty though, that was another matter entirely. Standing alone, loyalty is a big word, but big words never kept anyone well-fed. And I’ve worked up quite the appetite. Besides, I wasn’t a man in a search of a particular purpose to be left to cower and sleep in the security of numbers. I’ve always loathed the need of sleep. Like death, it puts even the most powerful men on their backs
“I won’t be left to obey the words of the weak.” Fragmented thoughts running lapses in my frontal lobe. “I want a position of power-“ I stare at her without emotion to betray. “-of importance.”
Say the right words lassie and I will be fighting forest fires with cans of kerosene.
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