| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 9 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE |
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Ragnar :: Plain Boggart :: Suffocate
Nevada |
Crash Course
High dive into frozen waves
Machiavellian, insidious longings, prowling, haunting amidst the gravel, the rubble, tail twining among the iron quarry, hunting as a wolf to the scent of fresh spilt cruor, teeth gnashing, breath laden with frost— the brine crashes against the seaside, drab and royal, skies awash with azure, splintering beneath his inclement spheres, bitter and impassive, crepuscule and frost-bound, savage and ruinous, devastating, malevolent, sweat beading in a fine lining of rime, the odor of salt prominent against his sweltering sinew, begging, pleading, observing— if a rodent dared to cross within his sight, it would suffer the pummeling of his hooves, and if a seagull endeavored to squawk among the pebbles, it would find itself lost at sea, sanguine staining the waters, for he was violent and vehement, rancorous and pernicious, depraved greed for the bodies of those whom had lain carnage against porcelain skin growing a fervor within his veins, aureate and caramel, ivory babes filtered with lacerations, yearning for the damnable men and craven women whom would lay a finger against their frames wilted as late blooming buds in the ravenous touch of the North, battered and beat, aspirations and ambitions crushed, thrown to the starved froth of the brine, scattered among the wind. He would not travel far from his homeland— for the vexation and distress knots within his scarred bosom, alabaster lace and rosy cheeks, liquid spheres dancing with mirth, a shieldmaiden, a shadow, a bloodhound, the impersonator and the mercenary, the guard, the warmonger with copper wine weighed upon his tongue, yellowed teeth and foul lips, necrosis, eradication, dissolution and demise, bottled mortality and settled graves, a enervated executioner, a all but pious wolf, a fool with the daydream of extinct lineage on the horizon.
The Siberian liquor of the tides splash against his pillars, anchors soaked within mere milliseconds, goosebumps forming along his worn husk of a soul, a acidic burn to the glacial brine, the salt cleansing the muddied feathers, soaked from snow dampened soil, grinding jaws and jagged frowns, leaving his mind scrambling in its startling wake, a shiver causing the muscles along his raw structure to ripple, a huff, a exasperated, jealous, ire hand grasping tentative against his pulsing, cardinal heart.
Where was he?
She had borne his children— whomever he was— and where was he? Where was he when the monsters had crawled from the dens, the Archfiends from their Labyrinth, purloined her as a mere item, blemished and marred, defaced, maltreated? Where was the cur when his babes were cauterized? (And with this, he feels a shard of guilt swarm within his cerulean veins, for he had left, too, long ago, fled from the borders for the petty taste of death on his hide, bled in war, almost died, and risen from the kiss of the grave yet more malicious, more baleful, more primed).
He had not defiled her with his seed, however, and then laid her to rot with the canines in the bushes. If he had known the desecrate circumstance she had been so wickedly been subjected to, he would have fought Hell's armies to meet her again— swung his scythe against all whom would have opposed her and her babe's return, beheaded and slaughtered, thrown to the massacre and left only the bones behind.
They would have known anguish before he had let them meet the Reaper, and he would have taken satisfaction in their screams.
Where was the craven mongrel, the baseborn cretin? Lavishing in the soon to come summer Sun?
(The all consuming outrage and disbelief that rises as a storm within his rigid, strained corpse scalds him as a wildfire to dried wood).
He had not seen sight nor sound of a sire since she had returned— and she had not mentioned a bag of.. a groom at her side. The ungrateful wretch had seduced her as a bride, had let her birth his seed, dazzling and alluring, enchanting and splendid daughters, and then vanished as the wind. He did not deserve her.
The inevitable axe tilts, the chain tightens, noose wrapped and his breath labored.
"Come to her again," taunting and tenebrous, shrouded, guttural and rich, possessive and baneful. His voice extends, floating upon the breeze, a thrum— effortless. "Death will not have mercy on your pitiful soul."
And neither would he.
@[Arah]
and I drown in you again
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† Please tag me in all posts.
| Outcast atk: 7 | def: 10.5 | dam: 3 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15hh :: 5 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Wynter :: Royal Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Frostie |
A R A H
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The chill bit down into her coat, it frosted over the edges of the mountains, tumbling down in waves of snow to end up decorating her coat. Her hooves navigated the rocky terrain with ease, she had visited her many times to come and recall in her memories. On days like this she did not miss the company of others, out here she was alone and free. Fast asleep between her scarred withers rode Wynter, the emotions from her dreams were calm, soothing and made Arah feel safe and comfortable in these mountains. Pausing and looking out over and beyond the land, Arah looked over Helovia. Her breath caught in her throat, it was beautiful, amazing and literally breath taking. Yet as she turned back to the mountain rage and continued on her way, the memories of her last time up here brought shivers to roll down and along her back.
Crowley had found her here, alone and vulnerable. The black and white stallion had comforted her and truly made her feel like her cared about her. That was when she was still a fool though, now she had no idea about what Crowley felt towards her and even less about what she felt for him. Disappointment? Perhaps. Although that was not a strong enough word to describe the way she felt he had abandoned her and their daughters to the clutches of The Regime. When they returned home her had not even been there to greet them. A bile taste filled her mouth and suddenly the urge to scream in rage burned through the doe. She did not however, instead she swallowed the scream and buried the anger and frustration she felt.
"Bhí mé ina amadán." Yet Wynter did not reply, simply sleeping on emerged in her own dreams. Gaze drifted towards a figure in the distance, the familiar scent of safety and love. Crash He truly lived up to his name at times. Picking up the pace she made her way over to him.
Slipping up past his left side she came to a stop next to him. Silence trickled through her, nothing came to mind to say. Wynter woke up slowly; once she was awake she spread her wings and took flight, leaving both Arah and Crash be. The doe that her bonded wouldn't go far however and would eventually return to her. "Thank you." It slips from between her lips, yet at least it is something. "For protecting me in The Threshold the other day." Sometimes it seemed that everyone had abandoned her except Crash. Sure he disappeared but he of everyone that she had placed in came back. "I'm still not quiet steady on my hooves." Not physically, balance wise she could not be steadier. If was the lack of comfort that scared Arah. Sighing and looking over the snowy peaks the doe fell silent again with nothing else to add.
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I never live in the past like the forsaken.
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And I ain't afraid to die, I’m afraid of going to hell.
✽ Force and magic permitted. ✽
✽ No fatal or permanent damage. ✽
✽ Please only tag in opening posts. ✽
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 9 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE |
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Ragnar :: Plain Boggart :: Suffocate
Nevada |
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Crash Course
High dive into frozen waves
The cur does not come writhing among the winter wind, flashing a jagged grin, teeth gnashing with atrocious spiteful behaviour, enticing women to his sides with a casanova's voice—but he is gifted with something much better than cretin's spilt organs, littered among the sands.
She comes to him, as if they are tied, bonded, bound and manacled, he has pledged his allegiance to she— the beast did not have any other alternatives, for no amount of scantily clad, glistening women would make up for the Queen before him.
Sallow and alabaster— he catches her out of the corner of his eye, ivory lace, tulle and velvet, flourishing aurelian, she comes wafting across the snowfall, across cobblestone and crag, ore and earth, a maiden wreathed in nonexistent flowers and bathed in the immortal threads of time, elegant, royal and opulent— a coronet of ice set upon her brow, among the beige antlers, strawberry lips and rivulets of scars, and yet she is with as much radiance as all of his memories combined.
(For each blister, each flaw marks another hole in his bosom, and if he must make a deal with the Devil, he'd find each and every monster whom had dared harm her, and he would choke them to death in their own, bubbling, scalding cruor).
Grating, lethargic and heavy, he slides his dome towards her, sapphire spheres burnished and hyperborean, frozen chips from the sea, coiling alongside the fervor, the passionate gilt of her own— lowering his broad neck as a remorseful dog, feeling the prickling of wretchedness he had yet earlier enkindle within his veins. (He cannot remain stolid when they are left unattended, for she has always been able to see through the incubus's shields, his layers of armor).
When the bonded atop her spine awoke, her hymns echoing pliable and supple, his own harks sliding forth to listen— he exhales, peculiarly reaching to attempt and deftly, cautiously nuzzle her withers with his maw, he responds, somber and sotto in voice. "They'll die. All of them." Relentless and barbarous, does the seraph know that she has accompanied a incubus? Implied cruelties and heinous meanderings, he would slay them with their own intestines if the need be. "I will not let the blasted cretins so much as touch you, Arah."
And then, like a wolf to the scent of fresh, cardinal wine, he murmurs.
"Who's the sire?"
and I drown in you again
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† Please tag me in all posts.
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