the Rift


[OPEN] streetlamp amber, wanderlust

Lothíriel Posts: 37
Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hands :: 4 years of age HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Thingol :: Raven :: None krazie
#1

she may contain the urge to run away
but hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks

Cloven toes sink into the warm, dry sand beside the water's brim, carefully avoiding the cool autumn water with juvenile finesse. She is sea-foam personified with frangipani in her pale mermaid's hair, an idle wanderer with too much time to kill and too little tolerance for inanity—if patience is a virtue, Lothíriel is surely a woman of sin. "If we are born alone, do we die alone?" she wonders absently with a voice like seashells, letting the words roll off her tongue impassively, as if they were expendable—inconsequential, as if her breaths weren't numbered and each beat of her youthful heart didn't bring her closer to her last. Through white eyelashes she turns her gaze toward the sky above her (the color of lilacs in spring—it is a cloudy dawn); it will rain—she smells the heady aroma of an oncoming downpour, something which recalls the scent of her own mother. A light frown mars the delicate lines of her face like a spider in an hourglass, creases scarring the soft skin around her nose. "Our blue summer days are long gone," she tells the pale raven gliding lazily overhead, circling her like a vulture. Her aimless feet wander toward the water she had previously been avoiding so diligently, tempting the tireless tides. She feels particularly restless today, as if her erratic nymph's heart is revolting against itself in some display of juvenile defiance; the girl has grown tired of this constant gnawing feeling, as if she was always teetering between carelessness and prudence, wildness and composure, bravery and cowardice. Lothíriel is all walking contradictions, but what else could you expect from the daughter of death and rain?

The sun peeks out from behind a thick veil of clouds, setting alight the dark water below. It is chilly this autumnal morning by the sea, cold northern air sweeping off the tides in brisk gusts. Small white flowers burst through the sand in her wake, though they are soon swept out to sea by the frigid tides. Her flesh is cold and she is on the brink of shivering; she paces to keep warm, slender muscles rippling sinuously beneath a sterling mantle. In the midst of adolescence, Lothíriel is tall and gaunt, all dark legs and inquietude, still far from the elegance adulthood would herald but graceful in her own right. Her tail flicks moodily: why had she ventured here so early? If it was to watch the sunrise, it was an effort well wasted for the sky was nothing but an assembly of ominous clouds. She sighed through her nostrils, biding her fretful feet to pause for a moment. Thingol fell to rest upon her slender back, scarlet eyes turned to watch the horizon; what did today's portents promise?

annarey-stock-art | breathless-dk | confussed-stock | frozenstocks | hobbitpunk

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.
#2

The Grey-Eye’d prince is decided: Fillies fucking bleed from the sea.

He tries the ocean again, for it had been pleasant before the intrusion of the rusted child with the ugly yellow scar across that long, shapeless face. The sea breathes with moist, velvet air, tasseled in salt and the sleeping groan of some slumbering beast; it caresses deep umber sand with the touch of a lover, waves crashing upon the boundary between earth and some strange underwater domain. Reginald revels in the feeling of the world caving in on itself as he walks across the soggy dunes; the sea-kissed sand is cold against his fetlock, clinging to his feathers. Gulls cry; crabs are smashed underneath his hoof, some juvenile amusement rising in him like bile, pitched to and fro with the wild, grotesque merriment he has succumbed to—he remembers this game well. His fangs bare in a triumphant snarl.

The light of the beach is flat, submerged as it is under the shadow of grey, billowing clouds. She is the same shade of white-washed lilac as the rest of the colorless beach; he does not see her at first, engrossed as he is in his villainous game of crustacean conquest. It is the music of her whispered philosophies that reaches him. Her words float upon the ocean’s gentle breath; he casts a glance over his shoulder, glimpsing a childhood memory, the image of glacial flowers that grew in the snow, despite the petals’ warmth. His wrath threatens underneath his tongue, a quick rage at the intrusion of this female creature into his little parcel of peace. Underneath his hoof a crab pinches at his feathers, battling the suspended appendage; it attempts to scuttle out from under his shadow; he pins one of its diminutive legs to the sand, and he feels the hazy grey skeleton crack. Pincers grasp and wave about in pain and fury, and the tiny creature’s protests are lost on a prince whose eyes have found a nymphet of flower beds.

He remembers; she was a filly of words, and not the kind that belonged to his little spider minion. Those words were brash, stupid things; these were gilded lines of nonsense, a babble that he found curious and irksome. “You’re so far south,” he rasps, the whisper rough against the tender grace of the sea, “won’t you melt into the ground?” He lifts a brow; the cold of the northern reaches surrounds her like a cloud, clinging to her pelt desperately, for one cannot deny their heritage so easy. “There’s nothing to keep you frozen here.” He remembers how slender she had been before, a slight apparition of blooms; she remains infuriatingly thin-limbed despite whatever maturity she has suffered through. He never lied about her beauty, a useless thing in the past. It is useless now save for the curious way it tugs against something in the back of his mind, abrasive and invasive, a sensation that crawls and develops and grows in some obscure corner of his being. He wonders at it briefly; he kills the crab.

"talk talk talk"

R E G I N A L D

Walk the razor's edge
Cut into the madness
Question all you trust
Image Credit



--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!

--All force is allowed to be used against this character!



Lothíriel Posts: 37
Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hands :: 4 years of age HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Thingol :: Raven :: None krazie
#3

she may contain the urge to run away
but hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks

She cannot remember: did she first meet him in memory or dream?

Thingol notices him first, a dark intruder on their silky daybreak beach, a merciless shadow dispersing their shared light. Crustaceans die beneath the tyranny of his hooves, their shattered pieces scattered carelessly across the pale sand. Crab-hunter, the raven notes, studying the tall boy carefully as he watches her, delicate nymphet, queen of flowers, still half unaware of the swarthy twilight which tainted their dawn. She feels his gaze swarm across her hide like so many wasps, intrusive and venomous; an unholy thing, drops of black blood on some sacred shroud. A black ear tilts towards him, considering his rough-hewn voice, no longer that of a child but demanding, almost obscene. There is a moment of hesitation: she considers the ever-paling sky, the lazy lull of the ocean, the awakening of the seabirds, their raucous cries grating against the calm of the morning. Catlike, the tip of her lion's tail twitches, whether in contemplation or irritation it is difficult to surmise; damp air passes through her nostrils—she swallows delicately, her swan's throat fluttering imperceptibly.

Slowly, almost theatrically, as if caught in amber, her face turns to address him, jewel-bright eyes half hidden in a wild tangle of white eyelashes. "I'm no ice queen," she tells him simply, her tail twitching once more, though this time with obvious fascination. Another delay; she studies him carefully, like a merchant evaluating some piece of flesh. He has grown taller and broader since their last encounter, now closer to manhood than boyhood; he is dark where she is light—she is crystalline where he is granite, rugged and coarse. But they are the same grey eyes with the same hungry light: she wonders whether he was born with it, she wonders whether he will ever be sated.

He had once eaten one of her flowers—she would never forgive him.

"My grandfathers once ruled kingdoms by the sea, in a land far away from this one," she says wistfully, eyes turning toward the blue horizon, a strand of clouds captured on her retinas; her study has been concluded. Lothíriel is in a poetic mood today; she does not care if her audience includes some indecent half-boy who had once deigned to consume one of her precious blooms—anyway, he appears to be preoccupied with those foolish crabs. So—she continued with her tale, half-remembered from one of her mother's bedtime stories. When Huyana had recounted it, she had been sad. "Firesword and Raindancer were their names, both grandsons of Cinnoru the Cunning, the greatest unicorn to have ever lived." Her eyes never leave the sea, and she assumes a pensive air. "It was all destroyed, you know—they're all dead and gone," she turns back to him, scrutinizing the planes of his dark face. Hungry, voracious, crude—he has not changed from her memories—not at all, but she is undoubtedly intrigued by him; she hopes he will do something outrageous, she is so tired of being bored.


annarey-stock-art | breathless-dk | confussed-stock | frozenstocks | hobbitpunk

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.
#4

He remembers her so forcefully it is almost gut-wrenching; she is beautiful, yes, but her condescending demeanor is what makes her, that self-possessed air of almost domineering entitlement that makes her stand out in his memory. Her head held high; her pose against the misty sky, delicate and demure; her eyes as they slide across him, daring to judge him, his greatness, his newfound power. He sneers at her under her scrutiny, flashing white teeth in a visage that would have been handsome if only his eyes were softer, warmer—something humane. It amuses him, her self-possession; she is naught but glass and pretty flowers, but there is something that gives her blind confidence, something over her shoulder perhaps, on the horizon, a brother, a father…? Certainly it cannot be that white vermin of a tweety bird that flits around her, red-eyed and suspicious; Reginald eyes the creature, and he feels something pinch his fetlock. He looks down briefly; the crab remains valiant in death; it clings to his feathers nobly, continuing the fight from Hades.

His question is answered before long. He starts to wander toward the lapping, groaning waves, aiming to wipe the crap carcass away from his leg, when she begins her wispy monologue. Of course, it is a filly thing she says—something long-winded and self-serving, underlying what awesome bloodlines she may or may not possess. Yet, curiously, her speech is not simple or slow; she does not seem the utter idiot that her sex demands. Foam bubbles around Reginald’s shins as the waves wax around him; the murky water is sluggish to him, the salt sticky as it sifts through his feathers. He paws the water, flinging the crab carcass off his hoof, through the air, stealing all dignity from the fallen warrior. A dark ear remains cocked toward the aloof little fairy: he listens.

*"It was all destroyed, you know—they're all dead and gone.”*

He cannot help himself; he snorts into the salty waves, shoulders shaking slightly with the rumble of his soft laughter. “Dead and gone,” he repeats, whispering to the ocean—sparing a sidelong glance toward the maid of glass. “How great could they have been?” The name Cinnoru means nothing to him; the titles of the Raindancer and the Firesword lack whatever grandeur she believes them to possess. Perhaps in another country they are whispered before bed, to frighten children of grand monsters who prey upon the disobedient; perhaps they are spoken with reverence at the round-table still, in councils old as time that still congregate around the crumbling stones. It does not matter to Reginald; the Grey-Eyed Prince was raised in the wild, and everything dies in the wild.

His tail drags into the sea; he weaves it behind him, a serpent cutting through the seafoam. He must lift his legs now, for the water surges the further he wanders in; he lifts a hoof, and a grimace of distaste disfigures his brow: seaweed clings to his leg. “Tell me something, Princess of Flowers,” he croaks; the Prince throws the seaweed off and away from him. He turns to the filly, a great boulder in the sea, gazing once more with burning eyes of grey. “What is greatness to you? What makes something grand in your eyes?”


@[Lothíriel]

"talk talk talk"

R E G I N A L D

Walk the razor's edge
Cut into the madness
Question all you trust
Image Credit



--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!

--All force is allowed to be used against this character!




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