the Rift


[PRIVATE] the beast and the harlot

Abraham Posts: 113
Absent Abyss atk: 4.5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.3 hh :: Three years HP: 71 | Buff: NOVICE
Gwyneverre :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath & Brienne :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Frost Breath Time
#1

"Gwyn, what is this place?" He asked the serpent as they approached. She glided overhead, sending flashes of images to him of the structure. He did not know why he asked her, for her young mind only knew as much as his did as far as the regions of Helovia were concerned. A light trill left her lips, still stained a darling shade of crimson from her afternoon meal or the fat vermin that were still waking from their winter sleep, and she landed on a boulder near the stream that cut through the thick of the trees. Abraham continued to trot until he came to the water's edge. The brook was fat and moving quickly with the breadth of melting snow. This winter seemed to be breaking quickly, the afternoons reaching temperatures that could compare to the season in which Abraham was born. Taking a few moments to stand still and collect the sounds around him, black ears swivelling gallantly atop his crown, Abraham decided his resting place was safe. Breathing out as he bent down, the youngling filled his belly with the crisp, cold, icy water. His tail flicked gently behind him, being stroked by the soft breeze that danced between the thick, ancient trunks of the forest surrounding him.

With his fill set, the prince set on. He was searching for his brother, and knew his liking to the forests of Helovia. Gwyneverre lifted her growing body off the boulder to take to gliding again, her fiery eyes dancing around the tall features of the Rotunda. Stepping through the creek, Abraham set towards the building. He had never seen anything like it before, and never ventured here in his colthood with any of his family. It was just outside of their meadow, but it was still foreign to him; even on his journey to the ocean, where he was gifted Gwyn, he did not see this great creation. His curiosity was sparked by this featurette before him upon which his bihued eyes had never cast their sideways glance. Abraham climbed into the heart of the construction, looking up in awe at the pillars and glass. Gwyn flew to the top, landed, and explored. The dark prince could hear her lethal claws clicking at the stone as she walked on the roof, but still his eyes danced over the intricacy and beauty of this place.

It was nearly silent, just the sounds of the winds running between the trees, the sporadic chirps and trills of birds, and Gwyneverre's claws clicking to match the sound of Abraham's hooves clicking along the stone gave life to this place of immobility.






ABRAHAM
Take a breath and make it big
It's the last you'll ever get
Break your neck with diamond noose
It's the last you'll ever choose

Image Credits



@[Tyradon] @[Confutatis] and maybe @[Reginald]

Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn your kingdom down


pixel by tamme

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


WE ARE THE HEIRS TO EMPTY THRONES AND PROMISES UNKEPT
WE SIT AND WATCH THE EMPIRE BURN WITH MILD DISINTEREST

Today is a rather special one in the bastard king's life - his birthday. Yes, nine years ago today he pushed his way into the world in a spasm of blood and pain and glory, a helpless wet black bundle fit for nothing but drinking endless ounces of his mother's milk. Life had been so much easier back then, when all he had to worry about was what lesson his father would teach him that day - but, he reminds himself, it was a less enlightened time as he hadn't yet discovered Cynder. That had been a month later, when he was marginally more independent and determined to be the greatest king that ever lived, with his flame-tailed jade war-dragon by his side.

But there will be no celebrations for his special day, no acknowledgement from any but Cynder herself, who presented him with a small flower, the first he had seen since spring began. He cherishes the gift and placed it safely in the Rotunda whilst he patrolled the area, because to all intents and purposes this belongs to the Regime now and any who sought to spy on them only need come here. He spends a large portion of his time searching the undergrowth for eavesdroppers and sending his emerald companion to scan the skies, ensuring their society remains incognito - for now. He continues his path back to the Rotunda itself, hooves crunching on the last remnants of snow as he ascends to the stone floor of the ancient structure, keen to check on the flower his dragon gave him. Suddenly she stiffens, powerful frame scrabbling up his neck to perch on his head with flame-tail held high, agile head darting side to side as she scans for intruders. "Someone here," she tells him.

Sure enough, when he squints he can see the figure of a young colt in the shadows of the Rotunda, and his blood freezes as she sees the twisted horn rising from the forehead. But Cynder's attention is fixed on the roof above, where her keen ears can detect a scrabbling and can smell the familiar scent of dragonkin - like a whisper she moves from her bonded's back and soars onto the roof of the Rotunda to join the other one. She sends Tyradon an image of a young white, rather like Adele's Vera, then a swift snapshot of her approaching the younger dragon and playfully waving her flamed tail in a signal to play. Tyradon himself ignores his dragon's antics and focuses instead on the colt - the fact he's bonded must mean he is a hybrid, despite the horn atop his skull. Repulsion and pity for the dragon rises like bile in his throat, but he smothers it and approaches, massive frame swinging to a halt close to the youngster. "You are lucky to have been blessed with a dragon at such a young age," he rumbles - a gift from Nieque himself.


[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]

Abraham Posts: 113
Absent Abyss atk: 4.5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.3 hh :: Three years HP: 71 | Buff: NOVICE
Gwyneverre :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath & Brienne :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Frost Breath Time
#3

The boy's curiosity ran over him like a tidal wave, breaking his ribcage with the force of a hurricane. What was this place? How was it built? Was this a remnant of a time long before him, of before his father and mother? He needed to know, his heart fluttering with the desire for knowledge--for knowledge was strength and power, something his father never hindered from telling his sons. Learn what you can, for your intelligence is key. Do not take this life on your physical strength alone, for you will fail. Archibald had always emphasized and clipped the last word, fail. The Dauntless was quick to show that failure was not an option in this world, in Helovia, for failure meant death. Circe and Archibald never failed, nor would their sons, for their pursuits would be glorious and large, whether they were to be the defenders of this realm, or the ones to bring it crashing down in fire and ash. The colts, especially Reginald, quite leaned towards the latter of options. Together, as the darkling sons grew, they would be kings. They would defeat their enemies with agile, domineering, effortless power.

And, as Abraham stood in the Rotunda with his dragon princess exploring overhead, he decided this would be their kingdom, just as the Thistle Meadow had become their parents'.

It was after this decision that Gwyneverre released a terrible, ear-piercing cry. Intruders, Abraham knew from her actions, and the prince turned about face to watch as they approached. Images of green flashes, trailed by orange, led him on to another dragon, for Gwyn began to chirp as the distance closed between her and the new reptilian vagabond. Gwyn spread her growing wings, fiery eyes alight as the green elder plastered play over her arrival. Gwyn mimicked her movements just barely, and leapt off of the Rotunda into a nearby sapling, trilling towards the green. Chase me! Tag! Her serpent lips pulled away from blood-stained teeth to smirk, before she darted into the young canopy, hoping for her elder to catch onto the game.

Abraham noticed everything about the ebony stallion as he approached. He was large, but not gargantuan as his father, the Dauntless, was in these lands. The colt's bihued eyes narrowed skeptically as Tyradon, though unnamed in his mind, stopped near him. His silver gaze was calm, and kind in a way that lied to him. His body held evidence of battle and training, scars ruining the sleekness of his spring pelt. Abraham wanted to snort. Reginald surely would have. Instead, he let the stallion before him speak, and Abraham lifted his head. His youngling's double-horns caught a bit of light filtered from the stained glass and shined it more, the reflective onyx a vigil to his mother's beauty and strength in himself. "She was given to me because I was the best on the beach--the strongest to protect her." I deserved her the most. His words echoed off the cold stone around them, and his ears pointed on Tyradon like satellites, waiting for approval or discontent from the elder.



ABRAHAM
Take a breath and make it big
It's the last you'll ever get
Break your neck with diamond noose
It's the last you'll ever choose

Image Credits



@[Tyradon]

Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn your kingdom down


pixel by tamme

Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#4


WE ARE THE HEIRS TO EMPTY THRONES AND PROMISES UNKEPT
WE SIT AND WATCH THE EMPIRE BURN WITH MILD DISINTEREST

The bastard can feel Cynder's pleasure as the white returns her request to play, and she throws herself from the Rotunda roof in a shower of snow. Coupled with her desire to socialise, Tyradon can feel something else in her, a strange emotion he's never felt from her before; the desire to mother this youngster, to take her under her experienced wing and teach her everything there is to know of being a dragon. It hasn't escaped the stallion's notice that Cynder has never borne hatchlings of her own, despite the fact that she, too, is nine years old, albeit with the current age of a nine month old. She had simply never found a male dragon to mate with, as her prime years had been spent with equines who had never bonded. Meeting a young dragon brings out all the maternal instincts in her that Tyradon had never realised she possessed, and as she follows the white he senses her asking in a draconic series of chirps and hums - can you hunt? If the answer was no then the jade war-dragon would be more than happy to teach her new white acquaintance, as a mother would a hatchling.

It is strange for the monolith to feel such things coming from his companion, who he has always regarded as asexual - it had never crossed his mind that she might be remotely broody. With a shake of his massive head he switches his attention to the colt, whose build suggests he will grow into a large adult, probably courtesy of his equine heritage, as Tyradon finds unicorns to be dainty, slender little wisps. Breakable. His silver gaze shifts to the horns upon the youngster's head and his mask of neutrality threatens to slip into one of distaste, but he forces it aside even as he listens to the colt speak. He talks of how he met his egg; that he was given her because he was the strongest there. The bastard bites back a rebuke along the lines of whoever gave you it must have been addled in the head, when there are decent pureblood equines craving such a gift. "I don't doubt it," he says instead, perfectly pleasantly. "I bonded to my dragon when I was but a boy, too. It is the highest gift Nieque can give." But what would possess Nieque to give an egg to a hornhead? It wouldn't have happened in Isilme, that was for sure.

God, he feels like a crotchety old man when he thinks things like that. It wouldn't have happened in my day. When did his old soul turn so bitter?

He gives a small, self-deprecating snort as he looks back to the youngster. "How did you handle killing to feed your newborn?" he asks, baritone voice curious. Tyradon himself had been a particularly dark and morbid little colt - his sire had offered help with finding food for the egg, but he had refused. He wanted to do it himself, as it was his dragon that he had been given, and thus he had embraced his task with gusto. Oh, he'd been a mere two or three months old, but he had seized the opportunity to kill and had fallen upon rodents and birds like a dark angel, crushing their skulls with his still-wet hooves and ushering them from this life with naught but a swing of his reaper's sword. But he knows not all boys are like him - had this one struggled with the idea of ending life for the sake of one's bonded?


[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]

Abraham Posts: 113
Absent Abyss atk: 4.5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.3 hh :: Three years HP: 71 | Buff: NOVICE
Gwyneverre :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath & Brienne :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Frost Breath Time
#5

Gwyn chirped high, her song a melody of joy. She was excited--this was the second dragon she had met since her hatching. The first was also a green, Suli, but she was adorned with black stripes and a sleeker figure than this dragon now. As the white youngster darted between trees she communicated with the elder, releasing her name. Gwyneverre. Abraham blinked and looked into the tree momentarily. Gwyn nodded towards the elder. I taught. She reasoned with the green, looking back just right at the dark boy. It was true, she was beginning to catch things on her own now: small varmin, rodents, insects. Abraham still hunted for larger prey of larger rodents, foxes, and the like. Gwyn was still too small to take on these animals, and her fire glands had not developed enough yet. All she could do now was puff smoke, and so she did, in rings towards the green's face in a playful manner.

Gwyneverre growled and leapt towards Cynder, her tail lashing quickly, and she attempted to land on the older woman's back. The only display of playing she had witnessed were Loretta and Archibald, the red and white bitch chasing after the tyrant to nip at his feathered hooves, and Archibald to nudge her with his behemoth head. Abraham smirked some as the images played in his head, a constant reel of film connected to the small white reptile. Turning back to Tyradon he listened carefully. The black stallion seemed pleased and approving of Gwyn and the gift that she was. His smirk turned into a proud grin, an arrogant sort of painting on his young features. The prince nodded, his forelock lacing around his twin horns. Tyradon was young when he bonded to his dragon, and Abraham wondered if that was they way it happened with all dragons. He knew Loretta had been with his father for years now, but she was a bitch and not a dragon.

Tyradon spoke again, and the colt turned his body in a half circle to walk towards the steps of the Rotunda again. His young legs were tired of standing still and talking, but his ears did not miss a word. "Since I was little I have seen death. My father has his own companion and I had seen her hunt to feed herself. My brother and I practiced--killing squirrels and mice--and while Gwyneverre--that's her name--was still in her crystaline egg, I practiced more. I can kill foxes now." I tried to kill a badger once. It tried to kill me, too. He didn't add that, but he turned his crown to look towards Tyradon with mismatched eyes, wide and full of contented pride. "I don't care about killing. I feel nothing for it." It was a true confession. The act he knew was a natural one--to feed his bonded, and to protect himself and his family. Abraham would be no stranger to handing the scythe, just as he knew his parents were not strangers. They were warriors, true and true, mercinaries and leaders. Blood had soaked their hooves, Circe confessed to it, telling the twin boys of all the wars her husband stood on the frontlines of, commanding soldiers with his thundering voice and deep knowledge.

"I need to ask you something--what is Nieque? I did not get my egg from that being, I would have remembered the name."



ABRAHAM
Take a breath and make it big
It's the last you'll ever get
Break your neck with diamond noose
It's the last you'll ever choose

Image Credits



@[Tyradon]

Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn your kingdom down


pixel by tamme

Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#6


The Prince is furious.

Always, it happens. He finds a place; he deems it worthy of him. Precious. Covetable. And somehow his passions become knowledge for common filth, and he is powerless to stop the flood of swine that inevitably washes away his claim. It happened in his Meadow; it happened in the Cavern’s Pool; it happens now. Every time the darkling colt returns to this place, an alcove alight with some ancient beauty, it grows messier, smellier, with the stink of a horde. Someone lives here. Some group has made this place their sanctuary, and the vinegar of Reginald’s claim has well and truly dissipated. His tongue is sour with the idea of it.

He approaches, seething. Shadows loom amongst the multicolored glass. Reginald recognizes his womb-mate with a jolt; large and regal in his power, Abraham stalks the marble of the rotunda’s pillars, the arch of his neck grand, the bend of his knee robust, the bulge of his chest blowing away the illusion of his elder brother’s health. Reginald sees Abraham, and his heart flutters in his chest; he remembers that now.

Other things flutter within, however. He does not know what courses through him, seeing his brother walk the stones that Reginald himself saturated in his urine. He is angry, yes, but his twin is not the source; his stomach lurches with an unfamiliar sensation, his throat is coated with an unidentifiable mucus—for Reginald does not recognize relief, does not quite comprehend what worry is. He knows his mother worries—she says so all the time whenever he frequents her hip—and yet he does not know what it is for him to worry, for he’s not a mother and does not know what she feels. So lives his confusion, gazing at his dual-eyed sibling, his younger brother he escapes, leaves at his mother’s teat, thoughtless, usually, of his wellbeing. He is strong—strong enough for a dragon. Surely he can take care of himself. And yet the Grey Eye’d Prince worries.

He thinks it’s their father who stands with Abraham. It is not. He comes closer and sees the difference in mass, in coloring and marking; he smells the brute’s stench, and his anger flairs, for it matches the reek of the rotunda. This is the culprit, the usurper of Reginald’s kingdom. Dragons fly above the arching, rainbow-glassed roof, cheerful, carefree—Reginald pays them no mind. He approaches with eyes of fire, venomous fangs, a long, searching glare of arrogance that scrutinizes this behemoth. Reginald studies the stallion's face and receives the final insult: this brute has grey eyes.

Abraham,” Reginald spits, his eyes still boring into the stallion; he hears the poison laying on his tongue, listens to the harshness of his brother’s name spilling passed his teeth. He blinks; he tears his gaze away from the interloper, looking upwards into his brother’s eyes. He must be in control. He is softer with that unidentifiable sensation. “Abraham,” he says again, a whisper, “how did you find this place? Loretta didn’t follow you, did she?”



[*SHOTS FIRED*]

”Watch for Circe.”






There's nothing here for free
Lost who I want to be
My serpent blood can strike so cold


Image Credits


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