the Rift


Camon Posts: 40
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 15.2 :: 2 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE
For the better part of the morning, it's breathtakingly humid and sunny. The only clouds to be seen are far from here; draped over the horizon.

As was the way of this natural world, a pretty face isn't meant to last -- this beautiful weather took a turn for the worse before the afternoon could hit a comfortable high. A seemingly fair holiday on the beach is ruined by a drum and the echoing chorus of drizzle falling from the charcoal sky. Those fluffy wools in west became ominous sheep. Their depthless shadows casting a wide mist over distant waves. An occasional flash of light, so brief it would've been missed by those who blinked.

Thunder sets a grim mood for the cinnamon colored figure who is smartly huddled in a shallow cliff cave. The ocean roars its fury no more than thirty feet away; stretching foamy hands to claim him -- clawing at the sand with clasping nails that rake as they are pulled back. Recoiling as a snake would, striking as far as the laws of this world would allow. But the young one hides, avoiding the wrath of nature -- as all things would when able. The stones above, quake -- trembling in their socks, yet holding firm.


Those crusty, two toned walls aren't exactly yummy to stare at, but they ARE bone dry and warmer than the frigid wind. Surprisingly dry actually...It was as if the tide once could reach each crevice in this cavern, and now it no longer did. Or rather, no longer could. There's no point mulling over it... I'm not one to think deep into things; there are larger concerns at hand. Such as my tornado and...well...I'm sure there IS something more to be concerned about. It'll come to me.

30 minutes later...

Uck. I'm bored.

Gems scan the cold shoreline, lazy, already tired of waiting for this storm to eventually blow itself out. My idle thoughts drift to a rarely accessed memory. Eyes flash across this membrane, a mirror of my own. Her pale, supple curves are plump, yet shapely enough to be considered beautiful to most men. A warm wing slides lovingly across my spine; an old shadow I'd hide in during wet weather like this...

Art Table by Riven

Location: Endless blue along the shoreline.
Timeline: Early afternoon.

Current weather conditions are cold light rain, wind, thunder and the occasionally bolt of lightening. A typical tropic storm is brewing.

Word count: 375
Attack: (0/3)
Defense: (0/1)

Niskaru Posts: N/A
:: :: ::

Cloven hooves pressed into the damp earth, tiny particles of sand sticking to her form as she moved. The coastline was not a favored place for Niska. She hated the course feel of the grit on her pelt. Hated the sharp, salty, stink in the air. Hated the brittle cold that always seemed to blow in off the waves and nip at her form. Hatred seemed to fill her up, consuming her. She didn't know why it filled her so. Perhaps she was just having one of those days, after all she was of the female kind. It probably did have a part to play in her mood, but really she was disgruntled that some sly fox had managed to steal from her. Steal her precious jewelry from her duel horns. An angry snort blew from her maw.

Despite feeling this way, the young fem felt an air of importance and power as her lithe peds pulled her along the terrain. Even now as she trotted along, the already darkening day seemed to cloud further, the brewing storm worsening behind her. It was almost as if her mood was forming the black clouds. The thunder acting as her angry roar, chasing the carefree soft wisps of cloud from the sky and eating up the sun. Of course she didn't have this power, and nobody she knew did. Niska was not stupid though, she would need to find shelter soon, her pelt was already with slick with rain. Luckily a cave, albeit a shallow cave, was formed into the cliff surface not far from the shoreline where she idled. Though even now she could see a pale form peaking from the shadows.

As she drew near, her eyes darted over his form, their pale purple hue taking in all that he was. He was of course a brute, he was of similar size and build to herself. He adorned horns and wings. A hybrid. The word, although not spoken, left a sour taste in her mouth. She disliked all the other species, they were all beneath her and impure. Equines were dull and boring. She felt slightly sorry for them, as they were not, in her opinion, gifted in anyway. Those with wings she couldn't fathom, they were unhorned and thus not gifted, but they possessed the means of flight. It ticked her off that such a beast could fly, yet she was unable. Jealousy was a tough pill to swallow.

The hatred she had been feeling, boiled and bubbled within her veins. She didn't know this stag, nor have any reason to attack him, but she did so anyway. Without warning she let her casual gait turn into a leaping sprint. Once close enough, she reared up. Aiming to bash her forelimbs into his right shoulder, or possibly his wing. Her nape still managed to arch delicately, forcing her duel horns to point towards his form.


Words: 486
Attacks: (1/3)

Camon Posts: 40
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 15.2 :: 2 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE
My mind sips from the brackish pool of memory. Out of boredom I'd subconsciously chosen my dearly departed mother as a source for fixation. Which, it was quite untrue to think of her as, 'dearly departed.' No, that vixen wasn't dead. In all likelihood, my momma was out in the world maneuvering someone; feeding like a leech off their insecurities. Still, it's natural for me to think of her in such a distant, unobtainable way. Probably because I wouldn't ever lay eyes on her again; or be aware of the problematic brothers and sisters her unchecked sport would spawn. No. It was just me, myself, and I.

Still...this youthful heart did stupidly long for the company of her presence -- however brief.

Lost in the blissful realm of 'me;' I didn't notice the alarming rate at which another individual approached. Her footsteps, though bold and unmasked -- are conveniently muffled by the tropical thunder. When I did notice; it was from the corner of one eye as she was barreling for my little cavern. This adolescent stare flicks to the sleek, rain soaked ripple of her shoulders and breast. I waste precious moments tracing droplets of rain gliding down the mature, feminine shape of her developing muscles. Hot dang, was my first impression. Gems shoot their confusion to that ivory mask with increasing alarm when the girl DIDN'T slow -- my late second view was, 'your getting c-.'

When her powerful frame rears, successfully blocking the light I automatically cringe back into the cave. A sharp pain deflects my rump from retreat; somewhere in the dark a jagged piece of old coral on the far wall tries to stab into the fleshy meat of my left buttock. "WHAT TH-" The curse dies on my tongue as her rearing toes break through that narrow opening. My crown slides left, instinctively defending itself from the coming blow. Sadly, this inexperienced right shoulder is bare; anticipation only brightens my fear. The creamy wing tightens just as a her crazed forehoof digs down into the soft skin. (Though the blow didn't break my fleshcoat, in fact, it would only leave a bruise.) The sudden onset of pain sends a startled cry from my throat, magnified because of fucking box we're in! Both ears slice back against my skull, searing fury for this injustice, replaces anxiety and fear -- it rises like a hot wave to meet her insanity.

The wind circling this body is unknowingly (to me) providing a cushion, armored protection to soften the dull scrape of that first attack. Those eyeball poking weapons spiraling from her forehead are aimed to preform experimental surgery. I meet her scalpel head on, or rather, horn on. My antlered crown tips down, aiming all jeweled prongs in the direction of those pale swords. DEFLECT. Her size is overwhelming when blocking a tiny entrance. I need to get out from under these cliffs. "Bitc-," my tongue slips out from under a raspy breath; hardly loud enough to be noticed above the waves and rain.

These lips unclamp, but my teeth are still clinched hatefully together as this cranium sinks below my breast with my antlers still pointing at an angle. I thrust forward, pushing hard off my hindquarters and attempting to collide with her chest; hopefully to drive this witch from my den -- so I can also emerge and kick the ever-living shit out of her.

Art Table by Riven

Attack: (1/0)
Words: 550
OOC: Good luck!

Blu the Bootyful Posts: 443
Administrator atk: 99 | def: 99 | dam: 99
Mare :: Other :: 5'7" :: 25 HP: 99999 | Buff: TWERK
Niskaru defaults to Camon. Camon earns 0.5 VP.
 HP: 1100

Helovia Hard Mode

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