the Rift


[OPEN] Residual.

Quinn Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#1

Quinn
This will be my last confession
I love you never felt like any blessing


Sometimes life gives you lemons and you make lemonade or use it with a shot of tequila. Other times, lefe gives you carrots and you make carrot cake or a healthy dip. What do you do when life puts a gun to your head and you hear the unmistakable sound of the bullet entering the barrel. What do you do then?

Quinn fought.

Hell, she would continue to fight until her heart could not take any more. Then she would rest. It was not long until she would close her eyes for the final time and let go of all her hatred and fears. Because she feared for her young. How long had it been since she last saw them? A week? A year? Maybe they were all grown up now, with families of their own. She dared to picture them inside her head, but just for a moment. She would see them soon.

A wheezing sound accompanied her breathing now and lying down did not help. But she had no choice. Her legs were just a pile of useless meat and bones tucked away under her belly as to protect them. Another wheeze escaped and she closed her eyes. The rapid beating of her heart pushed the blood out of her chest wound like waves of crimson water down a mountainside. It would not take long now, for the warrior to take the final breath and retreat into oblivion.

We must all perish and leave room for someone else.
Even the thistles.



IMAGE CREDITS


OOC - Okay! This is where Quinn dies. Shes laying somewhere in the thistle meadow and she's got a substancial wound in her chest plus some other wounds. I will wait about a day before I reply with her final post, so you are free to continue the thread after she's dead (if you wish). Also, if anyone kills her off instead of letting her die slowly, that is okay too :) PM if you have any questions ^^,

Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#2
VOLTERRA
you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far
His over-sensitive nostrils flare, detecting the smell of blood. It is an iron tang, one that draws the young colt like a moth to a flame. In the future it will incite a desire to fight, but right now it is simply an idle curiosity that he is keen to pursue. He moves through the Meadow, tufty tail swishing against his stout young thighs and his stocky legs hauling him along at a heavy canter, eager to obtain knowledge on the source of the smell. He is still keen to add to his mental encyclopedia, and there's only so many wild animals he can observe before his eager mind hungers for something different.

The young leviathan soon sees the source of the smell and approaches quickly, his face torn between concern and morbid interest. It is a mare, a unicorn, her forward-facing horn like a jagged spear into the heavens, a horn that could probably slay opponents where they stand. But this woman does not look like she could fight off so much as a fly; her chest is a mangled mess and her body is littered with a myriad of wounds. Volterra is young, a mere handful of weeks old, yet he still has an instinctual concept of death, of the fact that every creature here is simply a soul inside a meat sack that will one day expire. He has never seen death firsthand, but he somehow knows that this mare is not long for this world. Before long her consciousness will be claimed by the great dragon god and her corpse will be left to the predators.

Still, he cannot help but feel a pang of sorrow for the stranger with what little empathy beats in his chest; this could be somebody's mother, and he pictures Confutatis in her place. How distraught he would be! But, he reasons, his dam is a vampire queen; she is as good as immortal in his eyes. "What happened, miss?" His voice cannot be described as kind - he seems incapable of that, even now - but it's almost gentle, soothing. He cannot help her, but perhaps he can prevent her dying alone, can keep her mind occupied with speech even as her body begins to crumble into the abyss.


[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]




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
"It does not matter what happened to her, only what will." His dark voice chimed as he stepped from the shadows. His mismatched eyes danced from the boy to the woman who lay, helpless and cowardly, at his feet. A malicious glint flickered in those mismatched eyes, his long, well-muscled legs drawing him closer to the scene and desire of death. The mare does not deserve life--she is weak and fragile, easily bendable to the will of nature. Abraham is the hurricane that will drown her, break her, destroy her. Gwyneverre--nearly trembling with the intense emotion and desire that surged through her bonded into her white frame--hissed darkly. "Today, you will learn." Abraham nearly snarled, though he was not angry at the boy, he was angry at the weakness in the unicorn below. She had let the world overcome her, let some mercenary take a shot at her, and she deserved only to have her life taken away from her fully.

Quickly, the hefty colt surged forward, his hueless dragon jumping from his crown to glide around the female. Abraham throws his white, feather-covered hooves towards the female's head, attempting to bash her skull in where she lay. The near two year old showed no mercy as he continued his assault, his hooves smashing wildly down in an attempt to squash anything he could. Abraham did not care of the mess he made--blood and ripped sinew would be a mighty fine accessory on his pristine, young body. The white dragon opened her jaws as she neared the female's hindquarters, sending white flames to envelope her. The white bitch aimed to bathe the dying unicorn in hellfire, to rid the world of the evidence of their kill. Abraham would not be pinned as the destroyer that nearly all Helovians were killing themselves to search for; though, in his heart and the eyes of this child before him, Abraham held the power and the glory of this kill.

Abraham the Leviathan. The Angel of Death. The Bringer of Ends.

Continually, the boy lashed at the female, until finally he stopped his rampant kicking. His body was shaking with the thrill of his killing, and quickly his dual-horned head shot down, attempting to stake the female through her chest and straight into her heart. Gwyneverre continued to blast flames along her body, though she was careful not to burn her commander, her bonded.

[ @[Quinn] @[Volterra] -- Sorry I popped into the action so quickly, Abraham totally writes himself! Also, I am placing this after the Vol/Abra thread, so we can assume Vol knows who Abraham is.]

Abraham
So this is the hate I've been born to
Full are the tales of the untrue

image credits
table by whit

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
Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#4

i am the vanguard of your destruction
He didn't know which came first—the scents, the sounds, or the visions in his mind. His eyes on wings saw something. They saw something, and Mauja, who had been doing something, anything, nothing, didn't know what to do.

He couldn't do anything. Just stared vacantly ahead, mind floating on the steady beating of four wings. He recognized two of the three, and in the back of his head marveled at how alike they were—all black and white. Black bodies. White, faces, legs, but not their hearts. And blood, such red blood, and the sickening crunch of bones breaking, and the crackle of fire eating away at still-wet flesh. A child, a yearling, and a body. The yearling, making the body just a body. Taking away the spirit that lived beneath the injured, broken skin. Taking away her name, her breath, her memories. Taking away her life.

He had no fucking right. Not a single, fucking right, to maul and dance and cackle and paint with her blood as his colors and her body his canvas. He had no right to burn her before she was even dead, mockery and sacrilege.

The spaces in Mauja's chest—the ones that had been nothing but a slowly aching void—filled with fire and anger. And the darkness roared, blotted out the grief. The marble statue came to life, suddenly turning on his haunches, throwing himself into the motion; frosted hooves beat a quickly melting trail across the face of the world as he raced towards someone he was way too late to save anyway.

[ This is kind of short because THINGS - flails - The purpose of this has to wait two weeks. :| ]
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Quinn Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#5

Quinn
This will be my last confession
I love you never felt like any blessing


It is time.

Time to let it all go - the pain, the memories, her life.

She opens her eyes as someone speaks. It is not what she wishes, so she snort as a reply. Then there is more words, not kind ones, but words that promise an ending to it all. She'll take it. "Get on with it." she snarls at the black and white angel of death. Now, even at the end of her time, she taunts fate and pull the strings. She will not die without reason.

So she locks her gaze on the red eyed youngster and never let her eyes wander when the angel start his work.

It does not hurt to die. It is over too quickly and soon there is just nothingness. She does not feel the hooves that open her skull or the smell of her own burning flesh, because this is what she chose. It is fate and she slowly falls in line with those who entered the void before her.

Heat and light mix together in a delicate dance of life as death and darkness bleeds in. Relief, bewilderment and desire. A thousand memories fit together like pieces of an intricate puzzle that makes up her life, her time, her everything. Then it all shatter.

It is done. She is no more.


IMAGE CREDITS


OOC - I feel oddly satisfied with her death. And with that done, you are free to continue the thread and do whatever you wish to her body :) Thank you so much for helping me btw! <3
@[Volterra] @[Abraham] @[Mauja]

Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#6
Wasn't sure if Mauja was charging at them with intent to hurt, or just to run towards Quinn? So been kinda vague :D

VOLTERRA
you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far
He continues to look at the mare, but she doesn't seem overly keen on replying. The colt is unsure what to do - should he go and find help? Offer to kill her himself, however the hell that's done? He stands awkwardly, tail swishing, crimson gaze nervous.

Then Abraham arrives, and then he slaughters.

"No!" erupts from the colt's jaws as he lunges forwards, but the heat of the dragon's flame is too intense for him to get close enough to save the mare, not that he could do a great deal anyway. Even at this young age, Volterra is not against killing, but he is against the killing of the helpless, of the injured and the feeble. There is no glory in this murder; no glory in the way the older male revels in the mare's agony, like the way a child may torture a defenceless insect. He did not defeat her himself - he has proven nothing about his strength, except perhaps that he is only capable of finishing off somebody else's dirty work. It is nothing to be proud of, to slaughter something that cannot fight back. It is akin to killing a foal, something helpless, something that can do nothing but whimper as it is tortured, and a far cry from the glory of battle that Volterra had thought Abraham and his dragon capable of. How he had admired them, thinking how beautiful they would look upon war-torn fields, going blow for blow with healthy opponents that test them to their limits. But this - this is nothing more than the most primal form of bullying, worlds away from the battlefield and the victory surge of felling an equal.

It is not the work of a Leviathan.

It is the work of a coward.

The colt's crimson eyes flash with something akin to danger, albeit it is only the first fragment of what will blossom into cold red fury as he ages. "She was helpless," he hisses. Despite the situation, he cannot tear his eyes away from the smoking ruin of the mare, cannot stop his nostrils flaring to absorb the stench of burning flesh. Had Abraham felled the unicorn himself, in the heat of battle with naught but the strength of his body, then Volterra would have admired him, revered him. But instead, he acted as an opportunist; a vulture, a blot on the world in the form of a scavenger. The young titan cannot respect that. He had damn near hero-worshipped Abraham when he first met him, but that has burnt away along with the unicorn mare's flesh. "She couldn't fight back. Where's the glory in that?" Eyes narrow, ears flickering backwards as he looks down at the singed corpse. If only she had been healthy! If Abraham had slaughtered her when she was fully functional, Volterra would have idolised him even more, the way he would idolise an older brother. They are similar; their fur, white on black, their natures, warmongering and arrogant, yet the young behemoth would never slay something that could not fight back, unless he himself had weakened it first.

The mare looks at him as she dies; he will never forget that as long as he lives, the way the light dies from her eyes as her soul flees her body. It is haunting, and perhaps others would call it disturbing, but the colt is oddly intrigued by the process. The pounding of hooves steals his attention and he snaps his skull around to see a spotted unicorn charging towards them. "Watch out," he exclaims, because despite his anger he doesn't particularly want to see Abraham gored by the spotted one's horn. Frame shifts towards the older colt, recklessly - stupidly - placing himself between Abraham and Mauja. Why put himself in a guarding position between a charging unicorn and the man who has just slaughtered a defenceless foe? It is simple instinct, an urge he cannot crush down. Let him tangle with an equal opponent, see what balls he possesses! urges his mind. But, for reasons unknown, his body has other ideas and the young warlord shifts like a shield between the charging one and his soiled hero, grimacing in anticipation of feeling horn and chest crash into his still-small body.



@[Abraham] @[Mauja]

[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]




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
#7
Abraham and Gwyneverre finish their duty, and the bloodied yearling turns away from the ashes of the once-unicorn. Mismatched eyes turn to Volterra, his tail lashing back and forth. His face was dark, but he looked calm. He had done this before, defended his home from intruders, had killed to feed his hatchling, and he was used to the feeling of death under his hooves. Taking a step back, Abraham spoke calmly. "Those who are weak, those who lose battles, such as her do not deserve life. Life is for the strong. I bare no glory in this endeavor, I merely wield a hammer." Abraham's voice is strangely placid, flat, his tone even and void of emotion. He feels no remorse for this female, and he never would. His white, finished dousing Quinn in her hellfire, rests once more on Abraham's crowned head. Not understand. Too young. Like you. Gwyn nodded, looking down onto crimson with her hellfire. Delicately, the draconian queen folds her near translucent wings, seeming to rest in the chaos of the previous events.

Their rest is short lived, however, as Volterra snaps to attention and Abraham lifts his head. The thrill of his heart kept pounding in his chest, not apparent in his demeanor, but his eyes suddenly widened at the flash of black, white, and blue. Abraham moved backwards, weight centered and ready, and Volterra moves foolishly in front of him. A vicious snarl ripped across Abraham's inky lips as he watched the incomer, but realization and familiarity pop into his head. "MAUJA!" The word flies from his mouth and quickly Abraham jumps around the colt to stand as hisshield, brows furrowing in slight confusion towards the Frostheart.

Gwyneverre, once so ready to protect this charging stallion, erupted in a ferocious manner. No one would harm Abraham in her presence, especially not someone they knew. The white leapt from her bonded's brow, her wings snapping open before Mauja's face, hoping to draw his full attention to her. Her chest grew with the light of her fire, but she did not expel any flames towards the spotted friesian.

@[Mauja] - ??

Abraham
So this is the hate I've been born to
Full are the tales of the untrue

image credits
table by whit

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
Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#8

i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ GEHH honestly I didn't *mean* to legit take two weeks in replying :x life just ate me up until now... ]

Familiarity only deepens the disappointment. The anger. The numbing, blinding sense of rage, of blue curtains of fire erupting in his mind—obliterating mind, thought, heart.

He had no right. He had no reason, because there was never a reason for this.

Blowing a hole in someone else's life.

Taking life.

His face is a snarling mask, his eyes full of rage. Beneath it, he couldn't recall ever having been this angry, riding a violent high that burned up all the pain he felt. She had had friends. Maybe children. Those who would miss her, and mourn her, and never forget her, their hearts forever whispering this dull, agonizing pain as they beat, beat, beat, beat on without her. What had it been worth? Why had he done it?

He hadn't seemed like that when he was younger. Mauja had killed more than he cared to admit, but he knew he had had no right. No reason. No nothing.

Just the hollow act itself, filling up an empty heart with blood that wasn't his.

They switched positions around the burning corpse, a jumping game to take the first blow, and his black heart snarled at them. So eager to take the first blow, so eager to feel his wrath, the only kind of justice he knew. Perhaps the memory of pain would keep them from doing this again.

"FILTH!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap and his eyes lightning. His breath was too hot in his throat, like fire wanting to be spit out—and the dragon, the fucking dragon, flashed before his face, wings spread and belly aching with flame.

A single, piercing moment of fear. Mauja knew the memory of pain, too. And he knew the power of the fear of pain.

Black-rimmed ears slicked to a thick neck. Fuck that. He had fire too. He had fire and he was angry, so ruthlessly he slashed his horn at the white creature, wanting to tear her from her throne in the heavens and watch her fall to the ground like snow.

Maybe he didn't want her to die. Maybe, because he knew the void she'd leave in Abraham's dark heart, and the silence she would leave in his mind. Maybe he didn't want her to die because he feared that silence in his own thoughts, and even in his near-blind wrath pity stayed him from playing his most violent cards.

Abraham had no right to kill.
Mauja had no right to kill either.

But he could damn well give the youngster a hell of pain to remember his transgressions by.

So with a wordless bellow that was similar to why? he lowered his head and angled his horn slightly aside, aiming to barrel full force into the dog's face using his own right shoulder as a battering ram.

[ @[Volterra], @[Abraham] ]
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#9
VOLTERRA
you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far
He doesn't know what to say back to Abraham's words - he knows what he wants to convey, but doesn't know how to articulate it. How can he put into words his strange take on murder? If this woman had been brought down by the older one's own hooves, then yes, but it's the fact that somebody else did the hard part that rankles with the beastling. It isn't right, but he doesn't know how to explain that, how to legitimize the thoughts in his head in the form of words.

But all of that goes out of his head as the unicorn charges. Abraham replaces Volterra as the shield, and the colt won't lie - he's a little bit happy that the older stallion wants to protect him, even if it's out of instinct more than empathy. The burns on his forelegs and the still-livid scars on his back and shoulder demonstrate the somewhat quirky nature of the two monochrome males' relationship, but that previous meeting is pushed to the back of the young titan's mind when Mauja charges. Abraham exclaims the unicorn's name, but it doesn't seem to do a great deal of good. The great blue horn slashes towards the flying dragon, and Volterra smothers a wince.

Safe to say that's probably not going to go down very well with the white female - the colt's burns testify to her temper.

But this time it's not the youngster on the receiving end. This time, he is simply an onlooker. With morbid interest he watches the two men, wondering if this skirmish will escalate to all-out battle. He has never watched a true fight before, and what better way to learn his trade for the future than to watch two stallions with fire in their blood and ice in their hearts? Crimson gaze watches as Mauja's horn aims for Abraham, attention darting between the two opponents as he drinks in everything about them. Their postures, their attacks, the way they move - everything is greedily devoured by the young warmaster, filed away for future use. He shifts aside to give the men more space, a simple spectator now, a Roman gladiator baying for the blood of the animals in the arena. ""



@[Abraham] @[Mauja]

[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]




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
#10

Abraham did not want to fight with Mauja today, ever, really, but Mauja was intent on causing harm..

The blue horn of the spotted beast slashes for Gwyneverre and all hell breaks loose. No creature would attempt at stealing her life without reprimand. Her small body is quick to evade the horn, the slice, the death, wings fluttering and carrying her just a foot or so higher above the white stallion's head. Rage splits her heart open and exposes her rowed, razor sharp teeth as she opens her mouth to let loose a hissing, shaking, angry roar towards Mauja, before the orange in her belly spews forth as white hellfire. It is a clear jet of fire, unbroken by age or inexperience. The draconian queen intends to devour this charging man in her flames before he can reach her precious bonded.

Abraham, with eyes wide, backpedals for a moment before grasping his wild confidence with both hands. Muscled legs propel him forward and to the left, away from Mauja's horn, but not completely away from his shoulder. Abraham's right thigh feels the impact and, without the pain registering fully on his mind, the younger, but still monstrous draft, shoots out his right back leg. It is a canon meant to crash against Mauja's leg somewhere and cause pain, too. The hellion prince's eyes narrowed as his kick receded and he bound away, turning back only when he was a few horse lengths away. He spoke again, and Gwnyeverre came rocketing towards him to fly circles around her prince, chest and belly still burning in oranges and reds, matching her fierce eyes, "She was going to die whether it was my doing or not! Would you rather her suffer?! Abraham's words are harsh and cold and loud as he spits them at Mauja.

The dual horned prince, at this point, lost all focus or care for Volterra, and was completely focused on the spotted man that intended to take his head. Pain throbbed in his thigh from the impact of Mauja's shoulder, warmth setting in on the well-muscled area, and a silence praise was given in his heart for the impressively thick blood of his father honing in on his genes as well.

Abraham
So this is the hate I've been born to
Full are the tales of the untrue

image credits
table by whit


@[Volterra] @[Mauja]

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
Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#11

i am the vanguard of your destruction
It's a mistake and he knows itknew it in the same moment that he decided to throw his horn in her direction, because he knew what that glow in her belly was, and he knew how much it would fucking hurt.

But he did it anyway, to show his conviction, that he was not afraid, and then he simply had to pay for it. Do nothing, unless you are willing to face the consequences, and his world erupted into a familiar, nerve-fraying, heart-shattering pain. For the first heartbeat of it it was just hot, shocking the body for a blessed, split second of agony at a bearable level, but that's all you get: half a second's respite.

After that, you catch up, and it's like someone bludgeoning you in the head.
And the scent comes just a moment after.

It blinded him, and his scream tore out of the owls' distant throats instead of his own, because fuck that he was going to let them know how it hurt—how it pulsed, how it ate, how it transformed every, single, fucking, moment into raw pain, every breath and every beat coursing through broken nerves that shrieked in his mind.

Distance to the memories had dulled them, had made him forget just how exquisite an agony it was. Within, he trembled with it, but outside, he remained rigid, moving, drunk on conviction and powered by belief—legs moved, sides heaved, but eyes saw nothing but half-shadows in a dark world as the pain devoured him.

Dried skin broke, blackened edges stained red with blood, the air biting and fuck he doesn't know how much longer he can hold on, but he be damned before he'd let them see how it hurt—before he was weak before them—before he'd let them know they had won.

If he could lie to them, if he could trick them, he'd do it. Fuck it he'd do it, and as his harsh breath pounded in and out of his choking lungs he barely felt the collisions of unsullied flesh; a shoulder against a thigh, a hoof smacking against his own thigh and crushing blood vessels mercilessly, promising a bruise that was infinitesimal compared to the charred line drawn haphazardly over his back.

He was weak because he was grateful Abraham didn't come after him again; turned himself, slung his body around and stood rigid, regal, tall, the white perfection of his back sullied by raw, red flesh and stinking, blackened ridges, desperation and stubbornness the only things keeping him from breaking and fleeing.

Besides, he had nowhere to run, and in stillness he could trick the pain into receding.

And maybe he was wrong anyway—"She was going to die whether it was my doing or not! Would you rather her suffer?!"—but he didn't want to listen, because his heart was a gaping wound the size of the galaxy, still bleeding from where someone else had taken from him. His ragged breathing punctuated his silence, the mad glint of his eyes slowly receding; did he speak truth? Had the mare been too far gone? Stiffly, posture cold, he turned his neck and defied the pain, and stared at the smoldering ruin that had been Quinn.

"You did not need to desecrate her," he finally said, winter's cold bite in his harsh voice as he stood there as if his back hadn't been been reduced to ruin again, as if there wasn't any pain in his body just in his fucking mind, a display of strength he didn't know he still had in him. "You did not need to revel in her ruin like a dog!"

So maybe, just maybe, the blue rage in his eyes had faded, and maybe he had been wrong, but some things he was not wrong about.

Fuck, it hurt, leeching at his patience and his resolve.

"Don't speak to me of mercy if you cannot deliver it with respect," he finally spat, viciously quenching the trembling his body wanted to put on, wishing for the adrenaline to devour him again and take the pain away.

[ @[Abraham], @[Volterra] ]
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#12
VOLTERRA
you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far
The fight heats up, quite literally - Volterra watches with undisguised glorious greed as the spotted unicorn's back explodes into fire. It is quite the sight, but the stallion makes no noise and for that Volterra can admire him. Like the colt, he shows no pain in the face of explosive burning agony - the beastling still holds the scars on his fetlocks from his run-in with the white's fire, so he knows what a unique brand of torture dragonfire is. In his young life he has known nothing like it, something so agonising it made him wish he could peel off his own skin simply to rid himself of the ruined, blackened patches. He hears distant owls screaming, but does not make a link between that and the spotted one.

He can smell the pungent reek of scorched flesh, nostrils flaring to inhale the aroma and file it away for the future. Burning back-skin smells different to burning leg-skin, he idly notes. Definitely something to observe. The hearty slap of the two stallions' bodies colliding is nothing compare to the crackle of singed hair, and Volterra cannot tear his eyes from the exposed, raw meat of the ice man. But still he says nothing. Mauja vocalises everything the white-faced one had wanted to but lacked the eloquency to put into words; crimson gaze shifts to Abraham, curious to see how the other man reacts. Will he wish to continue the fight, to press the advantage of a scorched foe, or will he seek to defend himself and his violent actions? A silent observer, the colt simply watches, drinking in the scene and trying to guess at its outcome. ""



@[Abraham] @[Mauja]

[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]





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