the Rift


Blind Date

Morir Posts: 79
Up For Adoption atk: 4.5 | def: 6.5 | dam: 3.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 4 HP: 54 | Buff: NOVICE
Arwydd :: Raven :: None Adoptable
#1

It had stopped snowing, at least for now. The pale winter sun glared down on a dazzling white world, seeming displeased with its minimal effect on the intense cold. Temperatures lingered on well below freezing and made the breath of the two horses billow and fume where they stood, like statues of flesh and bone opposing one another on a meadow of ice.

"I'm sure" the masked stag said with a confident jerk of the head, a front hoof pawing the ground in excited agitation; a statement answering a question he found quite redundant. Hadn't it been his suggestion in the first place, that the acidic mare should test his mettle, gauge his strength for herself? It irked him to be taken lightly, to know that creatures he respected looked down on him due to a perceived flaw, an irreparable handicap.

Well. He didn't feel that way, and would love to prove this lady otherwise.

"Don't go easy on me, sis" he muttered under breath and meandered towards her, legs lifting high as he waded through the powdery snow. The head kept bobbing up and down, black diamond spears drawing circles in the air as he tested the distance between them. Blind as a bat, yet equally good at using additional senses to navigate; he listened for her breath, the faint sound of a heart pumping black blood through toxic veins, smelled the pungent scent of persistent wounds and acidic fluids dribbling from her maw.

Steadily guiding his charcoal ship close to her ebony quay he lulled in by her side with a look of utmost innocent, a comrade and brother simply yearning for the warmth of her presence. When nothing but inches remained between their chassis he reached out with that same lazy lull and parted dusky lips to bare fangs on her right flank, turning a comradely groom into a vicious, hard bite meant to latch on and hold. Simultaneously he swung the silver-laced backside to avoid her reach, long legs stepping high and fast to the left with a flick of the tail that could fill her vision and nose and mouth with nothing but black silk, soft and cold and snappy like a thousand minuscule needles.

Would she underestimate him? Would she think him too frightened to land the first hit, too daunted by her dangerous mouth to dare move in close? He would prove her wrong, he would show what he had, would reveal the cards hidden within sleeve of this dark wool coat. He would give his all in a dance with death, and he wished for nothing more than to have her join.

Dance with me. Don't you dare go easy on me.



Post: 1/4 + closing def.
Words: 450

Judged spar, 4 posts + defense. Magic + Companions allowed.
Setting; Thistle Meadow, midday. Cold, clear weather, loose deep snow to about knee height.
800 words max.

What if I say I will never surrender?

BackgroundLabs.com

♦ Please tag Morir in all replies! 

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
The raven prince smells of dry leaves and pine, the fatal embrace of winter; it is a pleasantly eerie musk, an aroma far more delectable than the demon daughter's own rich stench of decay and rot, crumbling soil and blood. She drinks it in lustily, eyes rolling back to her skull, a shiver crawling down her spine and wracking her back, drunk on the gentle scrub of his teeth on her haunches, meandering at idle pace over the curve of her ass... when was the last time she had ivories pressed so lovingly against her scars, such soft kisses to ease an old woman's bruises? Friendship was not befitting for a queen, unless it was her king's companionship, or so the harlot had always thought- is it so surprising that Confutatis is lulled into a profound sense of security and peace of mind when mutual groomed for the first time in what may be years?

Beguiled by sadistic charms, she is unaware of the way his mouth pauses at work momentarily; and then ivories snap down, gripping at charcoal flesh. With a shrill squeal of indignation, the mare lashes out a hind leg in warning, popping up her hindquarters, before she remembers to not go easy, to not give the blind boy special exceptions and allowances- oh and he was wrong if he thought she would take pity on the unicorn with his hollow sockets and gristly face. Confutatis snaps out with her acidic maw at his hindquarters, but they are not there, for the Duke had pulled away; instead she finds herself blinded by a face-full of dark, stinging hair. Yet whereas her tail is lacking in nerves, his is filled with meat and blood vessels, being leonine; so she bites down, hoping to grab at the decadent whip with her mouth of poison. And instead of relenting, bemoaning the first injury he puts on her weathered skin, she then pivots around her hindquarters- freeing his tail should she be successful in that regard- feeling his fangs tear free of her haunches. The fresh wound on her haunches give a painful sting, a furious twinge as she transfers her weight onto her hind legs, but the wolf ignores it with a locked jaw and narrowed eyes. It is a solid, deep albeit small chunk out of her ass, but what does it matter? Still she has the curves of a woman grown and the scars of a warlord proud.

Hooves slither over snow as the demon daughter cowkicks at his right foreleg, aiming towards the joint. She imagines with a slight tingle of delight the crunch of bones beneath her hooves (how would he like that, being crippled in his legs as well as eyes?) As she moves, she utters another squawk of agony- the vertebrae of her beloved armor squelches in deeper to her spine at the exercise, beads of blood bursting and oozing from the wounds she inflicts herself; it is excruciating, feeling it weld to flesh- but it is also a reminder that she should use it. Thus, her armor materializes into being.

One must recognize no matter their allegiance or alliance, they were still fighting one another, and she did not want to lose to this bat-blind crow. Too many times she had been embarrassed by abysmal fighting performances in Helovia; once, she had been defeated by a medic, another by a sluttish unicorn, and she would not add to this list of accomplishments by being outplayed by sightless lordling, no matter his intelligence.

It simmers and surges beneath her skin, the threat of ruin and rot, infection and disease prepared to seethe out from her pores and into his skin, to rob Morir the thrice-crowned of life and whatever remnants of laughter he may hide. For a moment, she withholds the magic, containing it inside her pelt black as sin, before she exhales and lets it slither free, contemptuous and vile, hungry for that moon-light striped coat. Let it bloom on his hide, flower and take seed- rings of decay, mottled camouflage of withering skin, depreciating and degrading moment by moment; would he find respect for her then, when his coat began to strip from bone and sinew, exposing barren red muscle to the freezing cold that burned in her lungs and smoked in her nostrils? Would he realize her strength only when his very essence began to slough from frigid skeleton? What would he be when he lay upon the soil, decomposing, looking up at her?

He would not be the first to die at her hands. War was a bloody business.

But this is not war, she reminds herself. This is a vicious playfight- we save our strength for the future, when the Regime rules Helovia and is the only thing left.



1/4
WC: 800
Join the Regime.

Morir Posts: 79
Up For Adoption atk: 4.5 | def: 6.5 | dam: 3.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 4 HP: 54 | Buff: NOVICE
Arwydd :: Raven :: None Adoptable
#3

Blunt ivories grind and massage the black coat as he slowly, slyly ease into position. When they finally close and his jaws tighten their grip to coax a squeal of pain from the dark mistress, he feel a shudder roll down the spine. It was such a sinful feeling to grind his fangs against her vessel, digging them deep as if to devour her. There is no love for the demoness to be found in his blackening heart, but perhaps respect - oh yes, respect and a sensation of lust and devotion derived from a promise of might.

He feel like laughing when she kick at him, her anger amusing and exhilarating. Not unlike a child playing with fire the black stag enjoy this game, aware that he could get burned but never thinking it would actually happen to him. The solid half-moon miss its intended target, his legs are well out of reach of such a feeble motion. The lack of effort annoys him - did he not tell her to be serious?. He can feel her move beside him, sense the honed muscles contract and expand as the neck reach out, jaws opening to snap at his tail with venomous drool foaming at the lips...

The skull-masked fiend quickly move the long whip away, letting it fall quickly down and off to coil around a rear leg to be out of the way - it is a difficult target to hit with all its quick movements and diminutive size, yet so many nerves and tendons run through it that Morir is wary of letting it become injured.

The attempt at his precious banner is enough to distract him however. Before he can adjust to follow along in her movements the vixen pivots and tear herself free from his grip, a motion that send the jaws clacking together with a painful snap. He bite his tongue in the process, hard enough to set pain cavorting through the fleshy muscle and spread a taste of acrid blood onto the palette.

It is uncomfortable - he'd rather lick her blood off the lips, hear her voice exude a muffled groan as a second kick scrape by a left front knee. Morir sidestepped to the right as a result, hissing as he feel tissue swelling and pulsing, blood seeping through severed veins beneath the skin. It would bruise and he might suffer a light limp for a few days after. Even now it is uncomfortable and he is careful to spare it as he inch away, still to the right in an effort to avoid the power of her hind legs.

He didn't expect his queen to possess a ranged weapon. She never told him about her abilities, revealed nothing of herself that he couldn't deduce on his own. Acid kisses could be traced by scent and sound as it hissed against the ground, but how would a blind heathen notice the unfurling of pallid bone as Confutatis armed herself, or sense the wave of death as it rushes toward him?

It would have been comforting to know that not even the seeing would have been able to see this one coming, but when his chest and left shoulder suddenly start to ache, there is nothing to soothe him. Perhaps the swarthy northman was blessed to be blind at that moment. He didn't have to witness how the the black hair withered away from dark skin where blueish rings of gangrene and rot began to spread, was spared the sight of skin sloughing and rotting away, of muscle and blood withering to expose his innards to the cold sting of winter air...

Nothing would spare him the pain. It was horrible, sickening, nauseating and made his ears ring as gasping lungs expelled a furious scream. Limping and wobbling with fear and anguish clouding the brain, the stallion dug hindquarters in beneath and threw himself forward with chin tucked in tightly, neck swelling as he blindly aimed his horns towards the right side of the mares neck - or where he thought it should be. He wanted to pay her back for this, cut her open and make her share in his agony.

He groaned when weight shifted onto bleeding and oozing forelimbs but forced himself to go on, press forward through the deep snow and move past his dance partner. Morir didn't care that he exposed his entire left side in doing so, just prayed that his spears might have caused her enough trouble to spare him her poisonous kisses. In passing he tried to deal a quick snap at her right shoulder, an invitation perhaps to follow him onward.



PC: 2/4 + closing defense
WC: 773

ooc: I wasn't sure which way she turned or how far, so I assumed it was to her left and 90 degrees, away from his butt. It would place them with her butt in his face but not completely on a straight line.

What if I say I will never surrender?

BackgroundLabs.com

♦ Please tag Morir in all replies! 

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
Teeth close down on nothingness as she misses her mark; spittle soars from her rabid mouth, arcing with poisonous grace through the sky, droplets of bubbling acid that scorch and sting the earth. There is a ringing of disappointment in her skull; her companion's ocean, tides of nondescript gray and dull blues, echoes the sentiment of chagrin, pulsing undercurrent to the spires of stone and perilous crags that is her own wily and wicked head. She does not think with words, she thinks with flashes of emotions scudding across her nightmarish skies and lightning that touches down to the barren land; she lashes the ocean into a frenzy, and his sea roars back, pounding against her cranium unhindered and without halt.

As the wolf goes to turn, the vertebrae of her beloved armor grinds deeper into her spine, and the pain, the agony, damns her. Scarlet blood bubbles up to burst along the stained bones as the yellowed backbone chafes and scrapes open partially healed scabs, eroding ever deeper into her spine- it did this, on occasion, a terrible melting of cartilage to flesh, but it rarely did so in acts of battle. Along the entirety of her obsidian back, the wound weeps crimson tears, which congeal and lather, ashen maroon, around the frayed edges of her skin. It was torment and torture, the feel of bone piercing through twists of red muscle and charcoal flesh; her jaws crunch so tightly together she hears an ominous cracking to one of her teeth as she bites down on a shriek. Next to this pain, the wound on her haunches is barely worth being called an affliction. Even as she turns on her hindquarters, the injury Morir inflicted mordant and stinging, it is little compared to her armor fusing to meat and brawn.

Confutatis is not one for pity; she moves, bull-headed, through the pain, scorning sorrow and apathetic melancholy. For every moment of blood and bruising she has to endure, she will force it back onto her enemy, repay it hundredfold and bring them crashing to their knees. When they begged for mercy, she would not give it; when they begged for death, she would crush their skulls and shatter their bones, the final act of consolation for the wounded and persecuted. She was the Queen, the demon daughter; she would not allow herself to go unpracticed in the savage arts of battle, nor her comrades. To succeed in their cause and purpose, they must first become one in soul and mind, practice their skills and learn to execute their campaign with confidence.

Dark keratins scrape across the joint of his left foreleg; she takes pleasure in the small victory, hoping it is an omen of good will from the gods. An accomplished battle would be good to put under her belt after so many months of cold, dank winter and crowded rooms.

As the wolf comes back to all fours, she inhales sharply, the spinal column digging deeper into her back. Clouds of white smoke obscure her vision at her heated exhale; she remembers she must concentrate, that she should plant the seeds of doubt in Morir and she will reap the benefits for his insecurities. Tendrils of sorcery and necromancy seeps out from her, chasing and hounding after the crow without direction, seeking his tender obsidian skin; and her efforts are rewarded. As energy leeches out from her, vitality and spirit used up in summoning the nefarious black magic, she does not need to see to know the results; his heinous screech of pain is a sweet song to her ears.

She does not expect him to move so suddenly after the onslaught of rot and ruin; her breath catches in her chest as he charges forward onto the unsuspecting war-daughter, wielding his horns as weaponry. They are so long, those black swords, and the lower two scrape against the fused bone plate protecting her haunches; they sing a horrific tune, procuring a peculiar grinding sound. The armor prevents a puncture wound, but the force behind it will not doubt leave a pretty old bruising. Not willing to risk those dreaded crowns catching at the unprotected meat on her stomach or upper legs, Confutatis begins to pull away to the left.

Morir catapults on, teeth seeking the touch of her flesh, and even despite her moving away, the pounding of her hooves on frozen snow, his teeth just catch on her neck (horns luckily going clear over her crest) grating down to open a shallow scrape which stings in the cool air. In retaliation, she puts her weight forward and tries to shove into him, hopefully to knock him off-balance, while her poisonous maw opens, aiming to bite down on his lower neck or withers.



2/4
WC: 796
Join the Regime.

Sevin the Sucky, I mean are you a # or vacuum? Posts: 161
OOC Account
Mare :: Other :: 5'5" :: 25
Sevin
#5
Status of this spar?
@[Morir] @[Confutatis]

Official Posts: 847
Administrator
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
Official
#6
Morir in AA. Default win to Confutatis. 0.5 VP awarded.


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