the Rift


[PRIVATE] Misery Chain

Erebos Posts: 474
Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions & Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch Heather
#1


Erebos was many things at those final, feral moments of definition and resolution: an agent, cloaked in disastrous information, a child thrust into confusing perils, a lad twisted and distorted from ebullience into anger, then guilt, then sorrow, and all of them conformed at once into a strange, shirking little thing. He wandered at the edge of the herd meeting, waiting for the last of the citizens to filter and flicker away, not catching the Reaper’s inquiring brow or questioning stare, not eager to share, disclose details or particulars until he’d reached the first being who deserved the despairing cognition. His eyes were figments of the burdening, blistering turmoil, narrowed as he’d been in wrath, in contempt, in ire towards a miniature murderer, in remorse for being incapable and inept, because he hadn’t reached her in time, and then the saddening, maddening pulse of reality closing over the entire, bright, brilliant sanction of his gaze – until he thought he might burst from the conflictions and snapped his lids shut. Behind the blackened view, he channeled the strength, the resolution, the determination of his task, remembered the way his sire dominated the crowd, remembered the secrets spilled across the throng, remembered knowledge was power, had to be noted even when the potency seemed too strong, too toxic. It bound and crawled down his throat, a clandestine, covert stroke of the menacing hours Arwen was left to fester, to wither, forgotten and desolate, between the blood splatter and a cretin’s markings, a fiery lizard, and a punishment fit for nothing and no one. Before he had the opportunity to shy away, to shirk and shudder in the sharing of this ill-fated wisdom, he opened his sights, found the ivory femme tucked along the mountain ramparts, and maneuvered towards her.

His movements felt sluggish, dragging, listless and languid, a cretin’s march to the gallows, hesitant and yielding, because he had no idea how the mother of a murdered child would react. The scion’s ignorance was a futile essence and a missing experience soon to be shared, and he could only dread each insurmountable moment. How does one tell a loving dam one of her babes had been killed, massacred, slaughtered? What would she do? Would she blame him, because he’d done nothing but stare down the brutal killer, watched him wash away her blood in the snow, spout anger and agony? Would she shatter on the icy floor? Would she seek vengeance? The possibilities appeared endless, and the apprehension clustered in his chest, caused his heart to beat rapidly, and for any sentiment of haughty endeavors or jovial pursuits to flee into the encroaching evening. No devil arts, no menacing smirks, no impish qualities flickered along his features, and as he finally approached her pale form, he’d managed to conjure naught but despondency and dejection, incapable of composing an appropriate mask, wearing reality upon his features. The lithe lad’s enduring fortitude maintained a struggling gaze, a tilting cranium, an anxious chord clasped and buried in his throat. “Arah? Can I talk to you?” His eyes darted in various directions, hoping no one else heard, divulging, hiding, subterfuge rancor, before returning to her antlers, to her gentle lull, and to all the ruminations of how she’d be so gravely altered once his proclamations were uttered. Another ominous distortion rumbled through his vocals, brooding and trepidatious. “It’s about Arwen.”


OOC :: @[Arah]
"speech"
credits

Arah Posts: 343
Outcast atk: 7 | def: 10.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15hh :: 5 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Wynter :: Royal Griffin :: Draining Clutch Frostie
#2

:: Arah ::

Son of death, a boy from the blood of what many considered a monstrous beast. Yet Erebos was not like his father in many respects, instead the young lad was delightful, curious and able to bring a smile to those who may be feeling unsure or upset about things. Yet as her golden eyes observed him there was something amiss. His usual persona had almost disappeared entirely, what had caused this the mare did not know. The Reaper's son had sought her out, called her name. Dread filled her as she studied the yearling, whatever had caused this change in his usual rambunctious self had something to do with her. Upon his darkened face he wore the expression of many woes, the laminations of a nation. Pain and grief seemed to trouble him, while worry gnawed at her heart and panic began to build up in her throat. "Erebos." Despite everything her tone was gentle and welcoming. Though even one as young as himself would be able to hear the nervousness laced through her hymn. Her voice had shaken slightly and the golden orbs remained trained on the dark son, the progeny of Deimos who she knew would one day bring the world to it's knees. "Of course." The answer to his question comes quickly, part of her is already guessing the worse...Arwen, Asch, Rhiannon or perhaps someone from her past. Whoever it was, it would break her to know if they had been hurt, captured or...no. Not until she heard it from Erebos' lips would the doe allow herself to think that way.

Arwen. What had happened? The mother shakes her head from side to side slowly as if the movement might make Erebos disappear. He remained infront of her though, most present than another members of her family. Already she had lost so much...what had the fates done to her now? Her daughter was...missing? Hurt? Critically wounded? Dead? Looking at Erebos now the fae princess felt as if she already knew. She felt it in the depths of her soul, a worry, a disbelief. From her mind she sent a silent prayer that those words would not come from the boy's lips. "Arwen? Where is she?" Her voice picked up in pitch, the panic finally started to take it's toll. Her mask slipping.

@[Erebos]

You are my refuge and I need you to see;
The only one I let down more than you is me.
Image Credits
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. ✽

Erebos Posts: 474
Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions & Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch Heather
#3


Trepidation and foreboding clawed at his heart, and for once he was not an untamed heathen launching crusades, assaults, and munitions across his vast playground, suddenly combined, taut, and tethered to the snarling caprice of life and all of its unholy pursuits. The child didn’t want to look at the gentle, forgiving mother of Arwen and Asch, who’d already suffered, who’d already been through enough heartache and sorrow, who’d already endured the suffering glances and barbaric blows of the world. Would hastening one more break her apart? He cringed inwardly, unsure of how to proceed, how to formulate and process the information readily: how does one tell a mother her child had been killed? Her tone was too gentle, too amiable, laced and woven and withering at the ends, as if she knew something was awry, like he’d given himself away in the short distance, morphed and altered into an entirely different beast, and no matter what mask he wore, it wouldn’t hide the pain, heal the wound. The prince bowed his head against her voice, stared at the tundra ground and steeled himself, strengthened his resolve, until he could raise his gaze back into hers. Any amount of rigor, of brawn, of tenacity, of might, formed in the back of his throat, was swallowed, disappearing into the depths of his chest, of his lungs, trying to form the right words, the right framework, then it tumbled from his lips in a disturbing finality. “Arwen is in the Frostbreath Steppe.” She’s gone, she’s bones, she’s ash and dust his mind burst, bleated, shouted, howled, a horrific venue of her fallen reveries, of eternal lifelessness, left in the archways of ice and snow because he had no way of dragging her into their home, of burying her where she belonged. A hitch broke over his voice, but he urged himself not to sob, not to cry, not to bow against the wake of despondency and desolation; her mother would have enough trials without him falling apart in front of her. “She’s been murdered.” The terminating word silenced him for several moments, snippets of the image forming a poignant, unearthly bridge, sinking and sliding and making it all the more real, all the more tangible, all the more awful, overwhelming, and unjust. He glanced off into the horizon for a few more seconds, not sure how to offer any consolations, any noteworthy notions, other than a barrage of apologies. “I’m so sorry. I was too late-" I couldn’t do anything was left unsaid, but understood. He hadn’t done anything to aid her. He’d come at the finale, at the end, when there was only blood and demise. The sob caught in his vocals and shriveled there, several tears sliding down his cheeks, grief wearing away when he hadn’t been able to express it along the Steppe (it’d only been raw, tremulous anger then, staring across at a beast who’d murdered, who’d damned, for the sake of justice); the spark of indignation roared again at the thought of the bestial monster, and incitement curled against his chords. “But I know who did it.”


OOC :: @[Arah]
"speech"
credits


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