.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
03-19-2014, 12:19 PM
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
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.
♛
♛
