the Rift


[OPEN] It's a Slow Descent

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

Cloven hooves made a perilous descent into darkness seem a graceful dance in all their cautious effort. Pebbles sprung loose from their ledges when disturbed, rattling downwards to settle on the stony floor whilst the echo of their escape bounded between vast cavern walls. The reverberating noise was massive, enough to make chiseled ears pin against an inked poll in a display of painful loathing. Once standing amidst the rubble of fallen rock and previous quakes the stag stepped aside to let the others down, he himself hesitating with skull-masked head held high and tense, reluctant to step too far into the vast chasms ahead.

The darkness was not a problem. Black followed him wherever he went like a soothing blanket freeing senses from the pain of light and color. Night or day didn't matter, for his blinded eyes would never be able to tell the difference anyway. Nay, it was rather the weight of bedrock above the head, pressing down on the spirit like a giants hand, obstructing the wind from blowing and the warmth of sunlight to caress the skin. It was the sensation of being swallowed by some gargantuan creature, as though the path downward had been the throat of a beast and now there would be no way to go but further down... Morir let out a long, hard breath through the nostrils and shook the snow from neck and shoulders, feeling the icy blanket begin to melt and run in rivulets and drops down the sides. A skeptical flick of the elongated tail expressed reluctance, yet if this was indeed the sanctuary Confutatis had spoken of he had no choice but to get used to it. From the journey south across the vast lands of Helovia he had learned to respect and fear the stench of rot and decay, diseased flesh and the sound of rasping breaths, and no amount of dislike for being underground would tempt him out again in a hurry. Apparently some of the illness that had affected the lands was retreating - healed, perhaps, by some miracle of these gods that ruled the land - but for now, it appeared safer to make these caves a stronghold.

Multiple sharp tines, personal and borrowed from the dead and forlorn, stabbed the air as the blind stag felt his way forth into the first of many cavern rooms. The warmth was considerable in contrast to the blizzard that raged on the surface, winters hold on the land both strong and fierce; his steps were painted in dark and damp upon the much tread floor, a soft glow from silver net slung across the spine announcing his presence that otherwise might have gone unnoticed in the gloom. Wary of bumping into any living creature the march of the hellion was slow, as always a high kneed march, a dance of tactile senses, sound and scent that brought him ever forth... but to where? Even he didn't know where he should be heading, and so with a frustrated sigh the young stallion came to a halt, forced to wait for the descent of Confutatis and her son, or for some earlier resident of this submerged palace to come and inquire about his presence.

Sometimes he did curse his blindness - life would have been infinitely easier to live if he'd but had eyes.


@[Tyradon], @[Confutatis], @[Veil]

What if I say I will never surrender?

BackgroundLabs.com

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


I DON'T FOLD UP AND I DON'T BOW

The darkness beckons him like an old friend; although the upper surface of Helovia is now available to him, he feels drawn to the caves that he has made his home during these first days. Cynder flies miles above him, reluctant to re-enter the caverns that so restrict her ability to soar, and he can feel her objection as she clings to the snow-coated trees. Stay here, if you want. It matters not to me. Perhaps that is a lie, as the hellhound feels far more content when she is close to him, but knows he cannot tie her to his body with a leash. She is her own animal, and as strong as their bond is, they need some semblance of independence from one another. The war-dragon shrieks, and he can feel her mental dilemma - stay out here and revel in the freedom, or join the black titan, to whom she would give her last breath?

In the end, it is not a choice at all. With a birdlike caw, the dragoness drops from her tree and flies beside the stallion, her tail lighting his way.

His massive hooves collide heavily with the ground as he walks, his gargantuan skull swinging side to side as he ensures he drinks in every inch of his surroundings. Nostrils flare, and a hiss escapes him as he detects the repugnant scent of a unicorn. He feels his blood rise, feels his desire to kill begin to pulsate through his body; he begins to move towards the stench, almost frothing with anticipation. When he sees the horn-headed mongrel, his ears pin, disappearing into the roiling depths of his mane. The creature is adorned with not one, but three horns - not only that, but his face is obscured by a skull that is not his own, possessing its own antlers. The sight of the antlers almost sends a shudder down the warlord's spine; the warlock who took his magic and regressed Cynder had such abominations atop his stunted head. The beast's gaze continues to travel and he notices the mongrel's fused eyelids - he is blind.

Suddenly the warrior feels the morbid desire to torture spread through him, to make this one suffer. He does not often indulge such macabre fantasies; he is a killer, not a torturer. He does his duty of ridding the world of its vermin, but he sees little reason in dragging it out, in making them beg for it - the faster he does the deed, the faster he can move onto the next victim. But not today. Today, he sees an opportunity to enjoy himself with the simple pleasure of watching another squirm.

He begins to paw at the ground, massive hoof rasping against the stone floor. At the same time, in the opposite corner of the cave, Cynder releases a dragon's scream, her claws slashing against the cavern wall to create a noise like fingernails on a blackboard. The warbringer hopes to disorientate the other male; to see the fear spread through his body as he realises he is surrounded by enemies he cannot see. Tyradon's hoof slams down again, the heavy thud creating a din that echoes through the entire cave system, and the beginnings of a demonic cackle pour from his jaws. ""


[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]

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
#3

She's a dwelling place for demons.
She's a cage for every unclean spirit,
Every filthy bird and makes us drink
The poisoned wine to fornicating with our kings.
Fallen now is Babylon the Great.
C O N F U T A T I S

The succubus queen despaired at thought of once again submerging herself in the warren of rabbit dens she made her home, a place she had first thought of with a malignant wonder and vile curiosity. Yet as days melted in weeks, and weeks to months, she had found herself wearying of the sensation of eyes always watching; the stench of hot bodies thick in the stagnant air; the wailings of children and the ever-constant murmur of voices, a tumbling river around her ears; and she found herself immersed in the want of solitary peace, among company she truly enjoyed rather than all manner of whores and broodmares and gallant stallions.

Perhaps this was why she came reluctantly, hardly leading as would befit the Lady Death, the Monarch of Decay, the Sovereign of Desecration- she found herself ill at the thought of delving into the bowels of the earth. She lingered at the threshold, even with the scents of soot and ash thick in the air, the hushed sense of something watching her, breathing on her; the crawling of her skin, the eerie sense of rot and ruin- I am putrefaction, gangrene and blight; it is not appropriate for me to be scared of what death lies around me. And so she lifts her chin high, the curve of her neck making proud line; she gives a slight shake to her skull, letting her pallid mane lay tangled and close to the chiseled muscle- and it is peculiar, is it not, for in her time with Morir the raven lord and her daemon prince she has grown- grown more MORTAL, less corpse-like, less monstrous, less of an arrogant deity… she is not an omen, she is more present, more alive than in any of her lingering and lurking, pretense of grim symbolism.

She watches, a wordless sentinel, as her thrice-crowned compatriot disappears into the underground; and she turns her skull to Veil, her boy, and smiles as a wolf does. It is on that note that she turns, and with a ripple of skin over cut muscle she burrows into the familiar tunnels she has come to abhor.

There is the clatter of rock and pebbles springing away from her hooves as she enters, the slither of fur rasping over stone as her bonded slips in her wake. It takes her a moment for her eyes to adjust to the utter dark; ahead, deeper into the caverns, there is a faint glow of scarlet and crimson, no doubt emitted by the slow-falling cascades of aureate magma. Her lungs rasp and grate in her intake of breath- the air stinks of briny stone and lichen- and she lets lengthens her step, moving seamlessly from walk to jog. It is not her intent to let her acquaintance be distracted by false promises and empty oaths, by warriors on thrones of glass sculpted by their own arrogance and ego.

And it is good for her to hurry; for what does she see as she emerges into the main cavern but the black dragon king, illuminated in rust and blood, hooves scraping against coarse ground in ringing defiance.

Idiot; is he always morbidly wrapped up in his confessed racism? Does he not see potential fermenting beneath that white-dripped coat? Teeth bare in a CARICATURE of a grin; wolfish, yellowed teeth, and she approaches, decay and ruination swarming around her, springing to life and passion from inactivity. She stalks closer, looming threat, ears pinning to knotted mane at sound of a dragon’s claws shrieking against stone walls. It writhes on her lips- sarcasm- drips from her slavering jaws; “I know you have testosterone, no need to shove it in people’s faces. He’s with me, Tyradon; and despite his lack of eyes he is not bridled by bigotry and discrimination.” And she seems to swell, confidence brimming on arrogance dripping from her pores; she lets settle the full force of her gaze on the egoistic stallion, knife edge to her eyes.

The hellion pivots her ears forth, glancing towards Morir quizzically- she does not imagine he will appreciate being introduced.
Mongrel’s faint amusement ripples through their bond- sensations and feelings spun into what she imagines are his words: since when have you given a single fuck for what people care?

“Morir, this is Tyradon-” a bit of a prick, she may have added (but at least a handsome, war-loving one at that) “- Tyradon, this is Morir; and I think Veil will be here shortly.” If he is not already- he has a tendency to slither through shadows unseen and unnoticed.

image credits
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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
#4

Would it be considered terrifying to stand in an unknown space, completely blackened with no notion of what was going on around, while the armies of hell came marching toward you?
It might depend on what one was used to on a daily basis. For starters, lack of sight was never a problem for Morir. He never knew anything else, couldn't remember having ever seen anything but blackness reaching out endlessly before him, around him, above and beyond even when he still had eyeballs. It was more likely that a sudden invasion of light, color and shapes in his mind would scare him from his senses - because how, after all, do you explain something you have never seen before?

Perhaps it disappointed the instigator behind the clamping, scratching and screeching to find that the obsidian youth didn't panic as noises erupted around him. Rather, he simply froze in place as ears pinned even tighter against the poll, orbless eyes pinching painfully as the echoes drummed maddeningly against the skull. The masked head rose back and up, head stretching high to let him taste the air suspiciously, long tresses swaying like silken curtains from the neck as they fell back toward the shoulders. Behind tensing flanks that whip-like tail snapped furiously, daring whoever to come out of hiding.

In the midst of the ruckus, the sound of hooves clapping and sliding down a stony path was drowned out, leaving the descent of the Wormfodder unnoticed until she spoke. Morir lowered the head with an angry snort, head turning toward the sound of her voice with a look of contempt on his face; the ears remained pinned as he slowly managed his large bulk of a body around.

"Hilarious bloke you have there" he growled in a rumble of bass tones that reverberated menacingly through the caves. "Do tell me he's got more than this charming talent for practical hokes to show..."

The distaste was apparent on his voice, tail continuing to whip the air around him, a vent for the boiling indignation that tensed all those rippling muscles. Tasting the air with nose and lips the gargoyle tried to get a sense of where this supposed 'leader' had placed himself he stepped forward, unwilling to hide behind Confutatis like a frightened colt and be protected; he wanted to face this bastard himself, to find out what kind of stallion it was that claimed lordship over all others.

What if I say I will never surrender?

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Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#5


I DON'T FOLD UP AND I DON'T BOW

Oh, the simple pleasure of befuddling another living being - he watches as the abomination tastes the air like a snake, as though to compensate for his lack of sight. The warlord continues to rasp his hoof against the ground, then darts forwards a few steps and prances on the spot, daggers creating an echoing din on the stone below. Cynder soars around, shrieking her enjoyment and rasping her claws even more frantically against the walls of the cave, the screech setting Tyradon's teeth on edge.

This is persecution. This is bullying. This is fun.

He barely notices Confutatis' approach, so focused is he on his hedonism. Her words cause his massive head to turn, thick skull pivoting to focus his frigid grey gaze on her, a wicked smirk continuing to flex at the corner of his muzzle. It slips only as the mare reveals that the blind man is with her, and the expression shifts to be replaced with disgust. "If you insist on recruiting vermin, could you not have at least refined your search to able-bodied ones?" His voice is calm, unemotional, almost amused. He shoots a filthy look over to the unicorn, barely noticing the familiar stings of Cynder's claws as she crashes into land upon his muscular back, her svelte jade neck extending to peer between his ears at the commotion.

His demon queen introduces the blind stallion as Morir, and the warbringer wrinkles his nostrils as he looks down his scarred nose at the horned one. "A pleasure," he rumbles, sarcasm dripping through his clenched throat and yellowed teeth. She mentions another name - Veil, and the hellion's ears pivot with interest. "Veil?" Another recruit, perhaps, and ideally one devoid of the protuberances of lesser species. The blind thing himself speaks then, and Tyradon's eyes narrow to feral slits. "I'm rather talented at crushing horned skulls, as well," he hisses, and Cynder bugles her agreement.


[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]

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
She wonders if it's just... a thing. Males and their testosterone, that is; yes, it certainly must be. It's like watching two dogs, circling one another, wondering who will get the bone and worry it between their teeth first- and if it came to that, who would she root for? Cynical eyes study them, a warmonger and a raven boy, both dark as shadow. The wolf didn't care. Whoever was stronger, faster, better deserved her companionship, but it would be better if they lay aside their differences and took up arms together.

Tyradon would accomplish nothing if he spat and growled at every hornheaded beast to come his way- she hopes he knows that, realizes his idiocy. But he won't and wouldn't, that was certain; because he was a stallion, always in the right.

The wolf watches the dragon come to land upon her companion, glittering emerald and jeweled jade; she smirks, sardonic in her smiles. "Oh Cynder," she croons to the dragon, tilting her head in that peculiar, avian-like fashion of hers. "Is your companion always so fettered by his racism?"

Confutatis returns her gaze to Terrador's son, ignoring Morir as he steps out from behind her, ash and shadow and moonlight. "We are all vermin to the eyes of the our forebears, unless we do them proud... and we will accomplish nothing with blinding ourselves to useful allies because of their race, or, for that matter, their gender."

They bicker, the self-absorbed, squabbling birds as always (men) an Confutatis listens to them both, talking of hoaxes and talents... fucking stallions, with their impudent beliefs and I'm-better-than-you show. Her smile widens at a thought- a dirty thought, a slightly unhinged thought- before she shakes it away.

"That's enough, magpies. We'll all have our fair share of spoils by the end, provided we work for it, and you can both never see each other again unless we must."

yay for short, icky posts >|
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