the Rift


[OPEN] men in cloaks

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#1
Deimos the Reaper


The die had been thrown, the measures cast, the pawns reflected: and the beast, once the sole King, found himself with two more constituents to add to the wiles of scepters and thrones. Instead of focusing entirely on those matters, however, he was more strung and stung to the pinnacles of consul and emissaries, reaching out for brambles and thorns and nettles to collect and discard along the way. He’d been settled into caverns, into grottos, into catacombs for far too long with naught to show for it other than the pieces of his absolute indifference; nonchalance, reticence, and seditious exploits rarely advanced anyone in alliances and armistice. With the Forsaken gone, with newfound skulls being crowned, the one who’d held the longest stature of sovereignty became obliged to follow the lines drawn in the sand; embarking on a finite mission involving Weavers and crafters. He refused to acknowledge what this meant (if he were suddenly no more than a mere lapdog, or doing more than he ever yearned, ever thought, he’d commit beyond legions and battlefields), leaving it another time, another place (or abandoning the notions entirely, for they made him think of weak calculations and efforts wasted in sand and soot), and merely scraped against the granules of late autumn’s vestiges; pulsing the maddening thrust of nefarious savagery, striding and striking amidst vicious limbs and immoral flesh, a Lord, a Reaper, becoming salvaged and composed into an interacting presence amidst more than just caves and shadows. Deimos’ purpose was reasonable and certain, a credence flickering between empty threats and ridiculous words, and his searching began with a few empty, hollowed vaults, mutinous features peaking and poking his cranium through various crypts, hoping to find the Engineer within one of their darkened, enclosed depths.

One could say what they willed of Ulrik, but at least he never queried, never questioned, never harpooned Deimos’ social skills. Perhaps their enamel, their lacquer could even rival one another’s in the cool, chilling juxtaposition of absolute composure and defiance, of arrogance, of subversion. He liked to think they were allies, comrades, in secrets, in lies, in power and condemnation, without words, without phrases, capable of understanding each other without the need for small talk and endless diatribes. They were tied to the same stories, the same myths, the same plots and musings, held the same comprehension, the same foundation – the haunting mist of the Edge, the blinding glimpse of refugee whims and ferocious bearings.

But the last time he’d seen him, the Weaver had been weary, had been tired, had been shelled and shackled by a fallen King’s untimely departure. What had happened to him since then? Was he a ghost? Was he a wraith? Or was he more than just a exhausted phantom, reeling, recoiling, and renewing - tumbling back into his monstrous, titanic wake (and suddenly the emperor missed those days of old, where consequences for their vile actions were nothing and no one could seize, no one could possess, their unholy vehemence)?

Eventually, the potent heathen managed to discover the right chamber, catching the familiar scent of the Engineer, gesturing and speaking into the midst, into the hallowed dusk, into the foils and crumbling forces, a summons, a beckoning, a means to an end. “Ulrik – I require a moment of your time.”

@[Ulrik]


Ulrik the Engineer Posts: 235
Deceased atk: 5.5 | def: 9.0 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1 hh :: 11 HP: 69.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Kirchoff :: Common Hellhound :: Superspeed Tamme
#2
If I had a heart I could love you
If I had a voice then I would sing


The Engineer had been stricken with unfamiliar pangs of heartache at Illynx’s disappearance and the loss of his son, removing himself further from the folds and veiling himself in brooding anonymity. Rarely did he look up from his work, not eager to be involved in the disaster that might befall him this time. Midas had fallen dead at his very hooves under his very watch, and that… that… curiosity, Essetia, had stayed his action. He stood before the scrutiny and accusation alone, hoping to lessen the blow of their loss with a machine. None of them cared, really. They were too lost in themselves, and the ordeal had shaken Ulrik to his very core. To say he was brooding now would be an understatement. Without his machines, the Engineer would be positively feral.

Having taken an even reprieve from tinkering, he went to a cave he shared with no one, leaning against a stone wall to support his slumber. It was barely restful. Bronze eyes would snap open and the lightest sound, rousing him from whatever nightmares his mind had concocted this time. The sky above was fast fading, the hues overhead a bloody reminder of yet another violent day. Those colors were soon eclipsed by Deimos, his silhouette unmistakable.

He raised a dark brow, expression otherwise unmoving. Rarely did anyone come seek him here, let alone their Lord. Ulrik had been Lord once. For a day, really. He hadn’t done much. Politics were his undoing, and he had fast elected Deimos to lead. Much better that he be the public figure than the Engineer, but considering that they both said very little at any given time, Ulrik was curious how Deimos managed operate so efficiently. Well, partially curious. As long as Deimos got the job done (which he did), Ulrik couldn’t give much of a shit.

Ulrik pushed himself off the wall and stood to his full height, wild, tangled hair falling around his masculine, bearded face. “You have it,” he returned simply, not needing so many words to achieve whatever task this was. He was curious, since this was such a rarity. What exactly did Deimos need at this time of day?


image credit


@[Deimos]

(Please tag me in every post)

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#3
Deimos the Reaper


The Reaper couldn’t tell if the Engineer was haggard, drained, careworn, or unaffected by the miserable days preceding; either by his own inexperience in concerning feelings and sentiments, or because he never spent enough time around Ulrik to interpret all his motions, all his movements, all the tightly, woven notions. He was nearly tempted to ask, to question the ruminations of one of his fellow refugees, but the notion, the queries, simmered quietly behind his teeth, broiling and brewing, but incapable of being unleashed into the world. Perhaps it was safer to remain in the stoic abyss, in the reticent void, in the aloof, indifferent gazes; where nothing could touch, where nothing could control, where nothing could stroke over the fibers of living, of breathing, of existing – only composure, only steel, only impassivity. Wasn’t it easier to remain in the flames, in the fires, of unattainability? Did the Weaver even want to talk, want to discuss, the transpiring of death and damnation, the sinking of sin, the licentious grasp of immorality? Or was he simply escaping from the potential deluge, staying steadfast, out in the open, away from the locked gates of emotions and perils. But the back of his mind twitched, ghosted, writhed, in those haunting measures and gallows, wondering if he was truly as awful as Ophelia painted him, brushstroke by brushstroke, hue by hue, too nefarious, too sinister, too savage and insouciant to even care about someone, about something, he always promised to protect…

The silence loomed far too long, and the monster regained his rigid posture, his taut essence, glancing over Ulrik in a careful, poignant study, but not piercing, not harpooning, not puncturing over the drawn pelt or the careless, haphazard image. He performed a respectful nod, and adhered back to the situation for which he beckoned the fellow heathen. “The Dragon’s Throat recently granted us armor.” He paused, piecing and shaping together the words and phrases he intended to utilize, striking over them back and forth, threading through necessity – he’d never be a conversationalist, a siren’s song of sinuous secrets or canvases; his arts and opuses were more tied to the battlefields, but he presumed Ulrik would understand. Neither seemed to favor the oeuvre of discourse and dialogue. “We wish to bring them something in return.” Hopefully it’d be able to soften whatever blows were sure to be rendered. “Would you be capable of creating two canvases?” Perhaps the hot haze, the blunt heat, would be hindered, somewhat ineffectual, amidst the Throat keepers, resting amongst the shade of canvas.

@[Ulrik]


Ulrik the Engineer Posts: 235
Deceased atk: 5.5 | def: 9.0 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1 hh :: 11 HP: 69.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Kirchoff :: Common Hellhound :: Superspeed Tamme
#4
If I had a heart I could love you
If I had a voice then I would sing

Ulrik was strange with his loyalties. Having never had family before now and never realizing what it was to belong to something, someone, he came across as callous and cruel. Time and existing in a herd had changed him, perhaps for the better. He would argue against that notion, thinking that feeling nothing was better than feeling the pain of loss – of the fact that his son was… gone. If he knew where they went, he would have followed, but he was woefully and sadly unaware. Chasing after a dream was foolish, and so he stayed with the remnants of what could have been and the voice of his son curiously speaking in his head.

Ophelia was wrong in a way, and right in others. He was cruel because he was without emotion. But, he was loyal because he secretly, desperately desired someone, anyone, to understand. At war with himself, he stuck to what he knew – machines. They did not question or argue. They did not try to love and leave him. They were right where he left them, obedient, beautiful and cold. Never could they tempt him with empty words and promises, and in that way, they were perfect.

Deimos was one of the few constants, and thus he had earned his loyalty. Ulrik could not imagine himself being anywhere else. Even d’Artagnan and all of his sass was considered (begrudgingly) a friend, and he pushed his body up from the wall and listened, interested at this gift from the Dragon’s Throat. Ophelia may have been many things, but she was skilled if she manipulated Gaucho into being their ally. Ulrik remembered the stallion from when he had crashed a herd meeting to collect on his metal, and he sensed the fire in their blood. It made him uncomfortable. That much flame was bound to explode.

Naturally, something had to be returned, and he nodded firmly. “I shall do so now,” he agreed. “Do you want me to deliver it alone, or should I wait for someone…?” he asked, knowing that he could weave on the move if necessary and save time. “I can leave now, if you want and have them made by the time I arrive.”



@[Deimos]

image credit

(Please tag me in every post)

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#5
Deimos the Reaper


Nothingness was mastered: neither of them grasped at potential discourse, neither of them kindled sentimental regards. They remained chained to their unrelenting purposes, fueled and incensed by a legion, a lifetime, a legacy of immoralities, loyalties, and wretchedness. Probably far too alike more than the other realized, they escaped back into their familiar positions, without posturing stories and fables and nuances not so easily shed or unearthed; perhaps, in time, the Reaper would question the Engineer on his pursuits, on his actions, and watch them reflect back upon himself. For now, they could churn into normalcy – the Weaver with his cloth, the Lord with his machinations, channeling and funneling the age-old creed of unholy malice and righteous vehemence (never spoken aloud, never clarified beyond the ancient, decrepit scales of contempt and loathing), showing pretenses and fabrications for the rest of the world to see. They’d both been built by the loss of the Edge, they’d both been strengthened by dreams and ambitions of the Plague, and now, they’d both segmented their way into the Basin’s lifeline, spilling their blood over and over again for the chilling winds and the treacherous snow. Deimos would never shirk Ulrik’s achievements or endeavors (some of the most magnificent results stood at the borders of the Basin, protective, overwhelming, watching, waiting), and he wasn’t about to do the same at this interval either. The Dragon’s Throat would know where these canvases came from, which individual spun them from his talents, which character or creature delivered and bestowed another gift at their sandy shores. The winter King took in the taller’s stag’s acceptance and affirmation, and proffered his own assurances, arching a brow in intrigue, in interest, at the potential behind Ulrik’s reply. “Thank you. Would you like to accompany Hotaru and I when we leave for the Throat?” The notion would save time for everyone; Deimos would merely have to summon the third party before they made their sojourn towards the south. What could result thereafter was another jagged piece of the puzzle the demon remained unsure and hesitant of, but the journey was something they (he - growth nearly dictated it, the Forsaken’s brutal slap of his armor prescribed it), needed to accomplish.

@[Ulrik]



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