the Rift


The Butcher [P]

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
#1

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

Hail death, shrouded in the skin of a wolf, as she stalks to a place of love-making, all swarthy obsidian flesh stretched taut over curdled muscle and withered anatomy. There is an undeniably tantalizing swing to her hips (emaciated as they are) a malicious allure pitched over her skeletal bodice. As thin and piteous she might appear, there still lurks an aura of heathenish evil swarming like bees in a hive beneath her mortal sinew. It is only accentuated by the necromancy which burns out from her, tendrils of rot and manifestations of decay -- devouring all life which stands before it with a heady fearlessness, a thousand tiny macabre massacres.

She is aflame with the hunger to kill --
to slaughter, murder, decapitate. For they -- impertinent fools -- had tried to steal her! Black lips cavort back in an egalitarian and silent desire to wreak havoc for what they have done to her -- to her! Never again, the wolf silently vows, sour in the thickets of her contempt; never again would she be shackled, chained, incarcerated in the frozen tombs of the north. And so she waltzes to those boundaries of this pitiful Helovia, moves to the fringes of the world she has tried to dominate, conquer, fuck for ages to no avail; to butcher the denizens, the foreigners, all of them alike.

Nightmares ensnare her victims, and then her magic, her wrath, coils out from her, spreading, weaving nets of ruination and damnation -- until the delicate little flowers, two twin foals, drop to the soil.

Ever so eloquently destroyed.

Over them she stands, eyelids drifted shut in bliss at the reek of their blighted and bloated skin, luxuriating in their tainted deaths; she steps upon them, euphoric, dances on their tiny bodies, hooves shattering ribs and bruising skulls. Her little scavenger flits over the children, devours their eyes, nibbles at their desecrated flesh, feasting. If they will not praise her name, if they will not respect her as a foe, then she will simply take their hearts, take their souls, strip them of what was theirs.

One step at a time.

image credits


@[Tyradon] OOC: The foals are dead and rotted from her magic, and for the record they're both pegasi c;
Join the Regime.

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



t y r a d o n

Scarred titan of the night; colossal hooves fall upon familiar turf, nostrils flared to inhale air that has not been blessed by his lungs for nigh on a year. Muscles bulk and burn, tail lashing against heaving flanks as the sweat of days of ardous travel pours from each stone-hewn line of his monstrous frame. He had trekked night and day to return here, to this place of ignorance plagued by mongrels and vermin; a place far too small for a man like him, with delusions ambitions of grandeur. He grew tired of its archaic ways, of its infestation that even he could not shift - and, with his vampire queen gone, he had little reason to stay.

So he left, none but his dragon by his side, to dominate where his unique talents would be more appreciated. He is a born and bred king, after all, yet his standards are higher than any throne Helovia can provide, for each crown in this godforsaken place is tainted by vermin. Instead he seized control of a herd of purebred equines leagues outside Helovia, a herd large enough and strong enough to tear down every mutated piece of shit that steps in their way. They pillage, they murder, they take and take and take and the gargoyle relishes every minute of the carnage he inflicts upon his foes. So why, then, has he returned? No, he is not here to stay. Life outside Helovia is far more suited to him, to his abilities, and with Cynder by his side and his herd at his back, he finally has the purist's empire he has always dreamed of. He has no intention of coming back here permanently, yet still he has travelled for miles, leaving his second in command - a grizzled old dog with similar blinkered views to him - temporarily in charge of his herd.

Because of her.

Cynder - his spy, his ears - notified him of her return, and it was that which made him turn tail on his herd with instructions to stay strong in his absence and await his return because he had an errand to run. Yes, it was Cynder's words that drew him back here, but it was when the scent of his red queen's potent perfume reached his flaring nostrils that he made haste. A stride that had been a steady amble transformed to a headlong gallop, forced upon him by the lust that sears his veins at the stench of Confutatis' readyness. After all, they have certain unfinished business. She left, then so did he; she has returned, and so will he, for long enough to take what she owes him. He has had mares since leaving here, has placed his righteous seed in the bellies of willing maidens, yet none have come close to how he imagines her to be. Oh, to take her battle-worn frame beneath his own! The monsters they could create! His heightened emotions bleed into his dragon, and the green empress releases a joyous squeal as she flies alongside him, beating her wings in tandem with the thundering of his hooves.

He slows, now. He can see her, and her heady aroma is tainted by the reek of decay. Cynder circles high above, sending an image of broken young bodies rotted before their time, tiny little flightless wings pinned to the soil by the weight of death. With another bellow of delight she descends, and through her gaze Tyradon sees the kitsune feasting upon the bloated flesh - the dragon lands beside her old friend, flame-tail lashing in delight as she burrows her scaled head into the belly of one of the foals to pull out a long string of guts.

But the tyrant focuses not on his dragon devouring the dead; his attention is fully on her. She is skinny, bone queen, but no less desireable for it - a rumble of an undescribable emotion bursts from the thick barrel of his chest as he lumbers forwards. "Well slayed," is his simple and far from eloquent greeting, chest heaving with the exertion of his travels but stone grey eyes dark with desire. Lips peel back from yellowed teeth, ears falling into heaving mane as he approaches, aiming a lover's bite for her shoulder - a reminder, a gift.


PRAISE ME, TURN YOUR BACK AND HATE ME


@[Confutatis]

[ 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

Even enveloped in robes of blood and swallowed thoroughly by her scientific game with the ruined bodies of the slaughtered babes, she is not unwary. Senses remain on high alert, corded and twitching with haunting caution, each strand of thought and instinct wound together -- and thus even in her cavorting among the corpses, she knows. Not that it is him (her beloved?) but that the approach of another is swift; the thunder of hooves makes her shiver, quiver, and she feels it in her bones, the haunting daunting pounding of monstrous hooves. It is not a quaking brought on by fear or more profound feelings of terror, but a negligibly intuitive sensation of familiarity even despite the foreign-ness of the situation at hand.

It is him.
Not her thoughts, for her head drops in casual playacting, as she allows her whiskers to delicately feel over each deliciously snapped bone of the babes. Feigned innocence of the crime -- but in truth, it is woefully clear she cares not for who observes her wicked dance with the dead, for the movement (pretended investigations) is dreadfully late. No, the thought originates from her zealously nightmarish mongrel, a sallow conclusion writhing with his disapproval -- not that she gives it any mind.
It is she who does the controlling in their relationship, whether the kitsune likes it or not.

For a long and idle moment she remains like this, unwilling to turn around even as Cynder comes and alights upon the carcasses (she does remember the dragon remarkably well); and then, salaciously lewd, she lifts her head, dark eyelashes pirouetting together as she turns her skull without moving her body to peer sensually towards her knight.

You would think some feeling of black anger might be sitting within her dessicated chest, grudges and planned revenge against their treacherous abandonments of each other, of the failing of the Regime; and this, this would not be the case. For she is a creature, a feral beast who thrives only on her fickle whims and plans of everlasting punishment. And in turn she gives into raw passion and sheerest instinct, liable to hunch and savvy sentiment, and she does long for him. It festers in her like a crouching beast, a monster whose savagery matches her own; thirst and GREED for a good fucking and a dragon king at her hip once again.

Ambition has been shrouded by sorrow.

"They're only children," she croons, pivoting lazily about her haunches to face him, yellow eye glinting savagely. "They are not as satisfactory as a good fight with a man." Forward she sleuths, barbaric in her sharkish nature, a thin smile playing over her charcoal lips.

"Where have you been, old man?"

image credits


@[Tyradon]
Join the Regime.

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



t y r a d o n

She is magnificent - anybody who calls her gender the fairer sex have clearly never met her, for he would be confident in her ability against any man. Except, perhaps, him, in all his testosterone-fuelled arrogance. He, too, wonders whether he should be feeling potent rage towards her for the way she had abandoned him and the Regime, left him in charge of the mongrels that she had invited into their lofty empire. And, perhaps, there is an element of anger in the nip he seeks to plant upon her shoulder - yet it is obliterated by the sheer animal need that devours him whenever he's near her. What is sentient thought, when their bodies growl with desire? What is the point of displaying their anger in words, when they can display it through actions? Through the slamming of his hips against hers, through the bellows of their passions like two rutting beasts in the night, through the demons that will unfurl within her womb and bless the earth like demigods - yes, the gargoyle is a man of desires, and the mere sight of Confutatis in all her bloody glory is enough to set his pulse to racing and his loins to burning. When combined with the aroma of the blossoming rose between her thighs - ah, he is hardpressed not to simply swoop now and take.

They're only children. "Aye - who has wronged you so that you would turn your power against innocents?" No, Tyradon is not going to judge. No pegasi child is innocent, and in his past he has slaughtered foals that still stand at their mother's hip. He does not shirk from early exterminations, yet for all Confutatis' brutality he had always thought the weakness tenderness of her gender would break through when it came to children. Oh, how foolish of him, to assume so! Like him, she is ruthless. This, even more than her wafting scent and alluring danger, is what draws him to her. She will make a fine dam. Strong, unafraid to do what is necessary to ensure survival. Not given to fits of weakness in the form of being gentle - because, as Tyradon well knows from raising his own children, it's best to be cruel to be kind. Why raise a weak foal with love, when you can raise a strong one with fear?

Ears pivot to detect her second words, and a slow, steady smirk of intense wickedness spreads across his savage jowls. "Is that what you wish to do with me now you have me back here? Fight me?" Because, vulgar as he is, the obsidian monolith had been leaning towards a certain other F-word when he deigned to return here. Oh, he would love to test his strength against her - to bear down like an avenging angel upon her flesh and receive the burn of her acid in return, to watch as Cynder and her mongrel duelled for dominance and, when they finally collapsed in a bloodied mess of pounded skin and elevated hormones, to bring her to her knees and ravish. But not today. No, today his desires pool in his loins, not in the warrior that lives in his heart.

Ah, the question he has been expecting. "Ruling," he declares, rumbling baritone emotionless and cold as ever despite the incessant burning that soars through the lower sections of his body. "I grew sick of this stunted little place and its stunted little inhabitants. Our Regime could never work when Helovia was unwilling to embrace all that we were trying to achieve - so I left, to ply my trade where it would be more appreciated. I am a king." Emperor, tyrant! He was born to lead, born to rule, and rule he does - his people adore him, and they are devout believers in his cause. "And you? Last we met, we were planning our domination - but then you were gone." A feral hiss leaves him at the end of his words, tone demanding. He has given her the answers she desires, now it is her turn.


PRAISE ME, TURN YOUR BACK AND HATE ME


@[Confutatis]

[ 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
#5

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

Forward the titan sweeps, yellowed teeth reaching for her shoulder; she does not reprimand him, but allows it to fall, instead reaching out with her own head in turn and snapping towards his forelock, aiming to snag the long hairs between her fangs. Nostrils flare, intoxicated by the earthly strangeness of his reek, the metallic tang of blood and sulfur sunk beneath the scent of sweat; her ears twitch back, pinning to her tangled mane, as her neck curls and head hangs proud. She is regal, effeminate, in her majesty; cruel and forbidding with her sharp smile. Nobody. Does he really think so little of her, that Confutatis, the World Eater, would shy away from the poised blades of murder, even of children? A shame, truly; she had thought she had left a rather more meaningfully macabre impression upon him.

"Only myself," she instead dictates, her voice a chilling rasp (like the drawing of a blade! The clang of the hammer coming down on the forge!) And her grin, so savage and yet with a coy reticence, grows ever wider as they prepare to dance.

Up her head tosses, silvered mane coming to hang across snagged and torn shoulders, as she presses forward, aiming to slam the shelf of her right shoulder against his, a cruel embrace; to throw her head over his neck, to squeeze him. Not out of the silly 'love' she has for him, but only because she wants to feel the pressure of their bodies grinding together, the hardness and firmness of their rough affection. Teeth grit and her amber eye rolls toward him, fixing upon him, the white sharp and bright around the copper coin. "Tyradon," she groans, taunting smirk playing around her wolfish jowls. "A fight, a fight is not at all want I want." And she aims to withdraw.

Give me a feeling. His voice -- so impassion! Is she not worthy of inciting lust in him, desire and a flush in his loins? She wants him begging, to eagerly quiver after her, to long and hunger for her like a wolf does for the lamb.
Mongrel snorts in disgust somewhere behind her.

Ears cock forward again as he speaks of tyranny, a glint to her ambitious gaze. Naturally. She imprisoned, and him with an army! Yet she cannot claim surprise -- she had known, seen, the power within his massive shoulders, rugged barrel, sharp head. "Captured, dragon-king. Stolen by those of the Basin." A low shrug ripples down her bodice, haughty uncaring for what had transpired in the north. "If only I had someone to teach... they could work in my place, and none would suspect them as they naturally do I."

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Join the Regime.

Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#6



t y r a d o n

She comes to him, accepting his nip but returning it with a tug on the tatty strands of mane that hang across his forehead - a low, animalistic growl leaves him at the stinging sensation of hairs tugging against skin. Delicious. She is a tease, a succubus, and her shoulder collides against his with a wet thump of flesh on sweaty flesh. Her neck crosses with his, two entwined snakes, and the blunt edges of his teeth aim to rasp sharply up her neck in a lover's kiss. All too soon she withdraws, leaving his simmering skin feeling cold and needy in the absence of her warmth. His groin burns, heat gathering between his thighs and tail thrashing against muscular flanks to display his ire - does this damnable woman know what she does to him? Yes, she probably does, and she probably thrives on it. Cynder, although distracted buried up to her neck in the foal's innards, mimics Mongrel's snort of derision. She, unlike her bonded, is not so weak to the primal urges of the flesh and of the stallion's needs that devour him.

"Then what is it you want?" he demands, but his voice is knowing - he just wants to hear her say it. Lips peel and nostrils open to taste the air, on which hangs the heavy scent that lets him know she is physically accepting of him, at least - the only question is whether she is mentally prepared to take the plunge with her dragon king. Her next words momentarily snap him from his desires, silver eyes turning to lock upon her as his ears slam to lace into his mane. "Stolen? I trust the thief rests beneath the ground now?" Who would dare take her! She is his, or so cries his testosterone, his to own, to service. His queen, destined to rule alongside him, not the chain-bound slave of a lesser creature. And, from what he knows of her, she will not react well to captivity. Her slaver must surely rue the day he took her - if he still has blood in his heart and breath in his lungs, that is.

Her suggestion, her musing, has him thinking, to. The Regime had failed largely because its members were only held together by the faintest sense of loyalty - they were not blood-related, nor had they sworn any sort of blood-oath. For what Confutatis suggested, they would need somebody completely trustworthy, a puppet that they could truly rely on, whose loyalty would never waver. Kin. "Who would be more loyal to you - us - than a child? A child you raise; teach, corrupt. A soldier, devoted to our cause. Our child." Naturally, the black behemoth has ulterior motives. He wants her, needs her, and what better way to have her than to ensure their union will create something great? Any foal of theirs would have strength etched into his very genetics, so think what he could do with the right training. Confutatis', of course - Tyradon has to return to his herd at some point, as much as he would like to see this plan come to fruition. "And, when he or she is old enough to survive alone, strong enough to continue the work we started - you could get the hell out of this shithole and be a queen beside me." A womanizer's smirk flees across his snout as he steps forwards again, aiming to press his meaty chest against hers.


PRAISE ME, TURN YOUR BACK AND HATE ME


@[Confutatis]

[ 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
#7

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

If her Dragon King wants her to sing for him, he will be sorely disappointed because her voice is no flimsy thing, molding to the whims of a man -- no matter how tantalizing he might appear, no matter the easiness of which he stands upon the eye. No beggar is the wolf, hellion daughter with a madness to her feverish gaze! And instead of proffering answer in the form of babbling and burbling vocalizations, there does flower upon her cadaverous mandibles the curdled crescent of a smile, hauntingly and sickeningly unchaste. Sensual spider, with only debauchery on her mind! Squirm, little Tyradon, agonize over me.

Pale eyes roll, fleshy nostrils quivering pink in her monstrous desire. In the throes of her lust, it is difficult to focus upon the wretched face of the bitch who stole her; later. She shoves it aside, the intrusive thoughts of murder, to mutter only this: "She's gone," but she matters not, when you are here. "And soon I will decapitate her myself, when my strength is regained." Of that, of her prowress in battle, she has no doubt; somehow, seeing Tyradon (and the murder of innocents) has only consolidated her former concerns about war. But this -- this she does not care to scheme and plot over. What she wants, what she hungers for, is pretty slaughter and him in every way.

Impatience burns in her bosom, hot as a phoenix flame or dragon breath; how can he stand there? How can he be content to talk, when they could unite their bodies utterly in the dance of rebirth? Has she lost her touch, her succubus ways?!

"I'll be your queen," devoured by greed! "But first, dance with me."
Composure utterly shattered!

--- fade to black? ---

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Join the Regime.

Tyradon Posts: 106
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2 :: 14 Buff: NOVICE
Cynder :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath Snow
#8



t y r a d o n

Heat continues to pool between his thighs, one massive hoof pawing eagerly against the ground. He does not beg; does not bend to the whims of any, yet he cannot deny his body's need for this woman. She speaks so easily of decapitation, macabre slaughter, and the thought of such wanton bloodshed only heightens his body's sense of arousal. His skin tingles, oversensitive to the air around it, neck arched and a stallion's snort pouring free from flared nostrils. "Her head would look most pretty on the entrance to our kingdom," he hisses. She, he is assuming, is a unicorn or pegasus, for no equine would be fool enough to try and take the vampire queen; oh, the beauty of a bloodied skull hung upon the branch beneath which the duo issue their commands!

Cynder drags her head from inside the carcass long enough to shoot her bonded a dark look, then flares her wings and ascends to the skies. She does not want to see what she knows is to follow - her eyes, so innocent! This is a habit with her; whenever Tyradon takes a woman, the green makes herself scarce. Bonded they may be, heart and mind, yet there is something sacred about the act that Cynder feels she has no right to observe. She would expect the same courtesy if she ever found a mate to plant strong eggs within her body. Flame-tail lashing behind her, the emerald queen beats her powerful wings and disappears into the trees, whistling to Mongrel in an invitation to follow. Her mental link with the black monolith becomes a mere tendril, and only then can the ebony behemoth turn towards Confutatis.

At last, she is his. He closes what distance remains between them, then he descends.

-fade-


PRAISE ME, TURN YOUR BACK AND HATE ME

[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]


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