| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 9 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE |
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Ragnar :: Plain Boggart :: Suffocate
Nevada |
04-23-2014, 04:14 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-23-2014, 04:14 AM by Crash Course.)
Crash Course
Like the empires of the world unite
"Don't fret," rich, vivid tones sliding as liquor from roseate lips and a jagged maw, from a wolf's predatory snarl, a vigilant soldier that had escorted her from the northern kingdom, leaving behind babes in the hands of his kin; for he holds faith in the Reaper, the GildedBlade, places trust within his brothers and sisters to safeguard them whilst he trails alongside the porcelain doe— he shall not leave her side, but dwell among her shadow as a daemon, scythe readied to slay, to eliminate with nefarious ease, obliteration, eradicate any whom would lay a touch upon her renewed sinew and bone, and even with the scars she is as alluring to his senses as ever. "If so much as a fool declares to maim you or your babes, they will meet the wrath of my crown in their bosom." Or dome, he adds, silent cruelties, curses, and he decides with vehement haste that he despises dragons.
They could rot in Hell alongside their muddied filth of masters— and he would cackle at the suffering in which they endured, for there would be no mercy among the afflictions he would cast upon such vile vermin of species, such loathsome, disgusting rats as these. Never the matter. They would meet annihilation on the tip of his scythe as it tore through sinew and bone alike— for they would be foolish, ludicrous beings if they believed they would roam free after the pitiful state the doe had returned to her kingdom in.
No, no, that simply would not do. They would burn. They— the impure— would know agony before the next winter came.
As the duo traversed across the lands the Devil remains fitful, itching, craving, he would prefer to be bathing in the cruor of his foes then endeavor to such a woeful obligation as recruitment, and yet even he, enthralled and draped in anarchy, crowned Prince of shredded wings and flesh crazed longings understands the importance of the act in which they bring upon their withers, for no army is made without mercenaries, and no civilization and nation built up without civilians to trickle in as rainwater, and so forth he moves, washed in the springtide Sun and cloaked in rapture, immersed within a Elysium of liquefied gilt and ivory, for she is alive, well; despite the wounds, the scars, the lacerations inflicted upon her precious silk, her lace, her dress of immaculate air. The soil beneath his cleft anchors is damp from melted snow and the alabaster oaks swathed in a rosy hue, bushy-tailed and russet rodents scurrying among the branches, chattering, sullen sapphire feathered jays flitting among the skies and earth, insects such as bees buzzing among the blossoming buds, a saccharine aroma of spring— even as the oxygen is polluted by spores of baked pollen. His hide is not accustomed to the warmth of these realms, quite seized by the enchanting chill of their homeland, the glittering, gleaming snow and scalding springs, the icicles, the caverns, the Labyrinth beneath their mountains, and as such his sinew writhes with sweat, shedding a once thick winter coat as he makes his way through the dryads; a eye catching flash of halcyon and cocoa beneath the calescent Sun, and with darting spheres of crepuscular cerulean he hones in on the culprit, a grazing stallion judging by the odor, and he swishes his tail to and fro as he examines them with a scrutinzing gaze. He is unsure if they have noticed him or not— although it matters little to the beast himself. The brute is a crowned, with horns resembling that of some foreign type of antelope, spiraling backwards, sporting a leonine tail to boot and a dorsal stripe that reminds the Devil of a grullo; yet his flesh is aurelian.
He almost sparkles in the sunlight, and he refuses to laugh, not a trace of humor lingering upon his impassive dome— but for the God of devout Time he sparkles (and there is no way he does not entertain the idea of nicknaming the other brute glitter glue in honor of his donned apparel, instead taking a step forwards, in all his callous barbarism, malice, and yet there is no sense of death seeking the cocoa crowned brother, for he is of unicorn kin, the pure, the great, and so he inclines his scythe with the hilt relaxed towards the earth, although he is far from a lull— a warrior does not sheath his sword in the midst of a war, and he has a woman to guard.
"Greetings," he rumbles, sending forth the rich gloom of his voice to swath the newcomer. "You've wandered into a nation deemed Helovia. Name's Crash Course, of the Aurora Basin, albeit you may call me Crash. The delightful maiden I am accompanying is Arah." A hush, a pause, and onyx tresses slap against his hocks as they swat away insects that wish to land upon his flesh, quivering nostrils. "You lookin' for a place to stay whilst you live here, brother?"
Permission to mention Arah/etc given by Frostie!
@[Arah]
And I'm like ooh, ooh
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