the Rift


[OPEN] MIRROR|ЯOЯЯIM

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#1
Яikyn

The shadow of this forest has such depth at night that it almost seems alive.
 
The bruises given to me by the Haruspex have faded into almost nothing, the ridge along my stifle simply a rough line in my coat, the bruised hip no longer aching with my step; though I still wear the marks of electrical burns, the wounds healed in places in a rich, creamy coffee color blending into the deep burgundy of the scabs, the worst of my wounds is still the lacing of contusions and small scabs from where I’d been flung to the ground by a shadow wolf. 
 
My ribs hurt, too, along with other places I’d suffered damage while battling alongside my sire (if you wondered), but I use a method taught to me by Furen, one that I have seen other warriors use.  It’s called walking it off.
 
I’ve left the bamboo maze, mostly because it has lost all charm it may have ever had to me in the memory of those golden eyed wolves, but also because I didn’t fancy getting lost this close to dark.  Instead, I’d traveled west and then south, down trails I’d walked more than once with my dam or my friends (sometimes both), and deeper still into the heart of this ancient and morose wood.
 
I want to see the red waters of the pool, to stand beneath the massive tree that I remember being the greatest ever grown.  I am sure it is only as large or perhaps smaller than those which towered in the Nightwalk, but I want to see it none the less – I remember it holding a somber air to it, one that stated it had watched the creation of everything around it, that it had proudly watched the fall of many kingdoms and great kings.
 
I could respect such a tree, and I feel that sensation rise through me as I break through the low brush (this forest fills broken game trails so fast it is surely imbued with the power of the Earth God himself) and find my golden eyes lingering on its deep, deep green needles which tower upwards in a conical shape into the heavens. 
 
And there is something golden and glinting in its branches, catching the light of the moon which is full and glows silver across the realm, igniting the fire of the diamonds that glint madly in the night.
 
With a greedy eagerness I stretch my legs towards it, gilded eyes never once leaving the shining trinket which I now can tell is oval in shape and made of a very pale gold, my eyes well adjusted to the depths of post midnight darkness, even in a wood such as this.  It is some fifteen feet above the ground, dangling seductively from a thick, matching chain of white gold which holds the pendant on the branch.
 
I can’t reach it, and for the millionth time since she’d vanished with my mother, I wish Kyst was here, or that I had a griffon of my own.  Instead, I’m left here (now splashing about in the pool below trying to get a better angle on the thing) on the ground with only my logic and four hooves, pondering precisely how to levitate myself upwards.
 
And then I see the sleeping squirrel, a memory of my magic rising clear in me.  I believed it was there, even though I hadn’t ever successfully managed to make it do much of anything; too many weird occurrences happened around me, and there was no reason I’d be so weary after feeling that… tug on my consciousness if the tug wasn’t doing something physical, right?
 
And so I push out with my will again towards the squirrel, I bid it to wake up and to wander over to the necklace and shove it off the branch.
 
I feel a tiny heartbeat flicker seemingly a hundred times faster than my own within my head, I feel small fingers touching the rough, sticky bark of the pine and scurrying across a bobbing surface towards a shining something; those same paws touch cold and smooth and then push it outwards.
 
The plink of the object landing in the pool pulls my will from the squirrel, leaving my head hanging low and my eyes dim as I slowly turn my features to look in the water from where the sound had come.
 
The squirrel above chirrups in terror and bounds through the trees away from me, screaming shrilly, unsure why he is some four foot from where he’d gone to bed and not at all pleased.
 
Sluggishly, I bid my legs to wade through the hock deep water towards the shallower region of the pool, smiling the most pleased of expressions to find the oval object shining on the ruby lined bed.  I hold my breath and quickly remove it from the two foot water, crossing the rest of the distance to the shore to admire my new… thing.

 [ OOC: Open for anyone. :3 ] 
in every heart a hole
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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

YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE

"You controlled it."

The mammoth's baritone voice remains monotone and devoid of the telltale uplift that would hint at curiosity - it's as though he is simply remarking on the weather. Truthfully, though, he is curious. He came to the Deep Forest because it is a favoured place of his, a land where he is the hunter alongside his crimson king of a dragon. They search the eerie shadows of the trees for prey, as Volterra's sheer size and brute strength allow him to bring down animals far larger than the red could usually target. With an abundance of meat, that leaves Vérzés free to train alongside his behemoth bonded, so they can strengthen their minds and bodies both ready for the full adulthood that beckons them like a siren in the night. The duo had been stalking a massive bull elk when their conjoined eyes had found the familiar figure of the black unicorn from the bear and wolf fight, and their limbs had brought them closer, unbidden.

Vérzés, with his dragon's eye for a trinket, had seen the sparkling item in the tree and had swooped to collect it, but a squirrel had darted in front of him. Watching through his companion's eyes, the colt had been puzzled - why would a squirrel target something that it cannot eat, even darting in front of a predator to do so? Vérzés disappeared after the squirrel through the trees, because he isn't likely to pass up an easy meal, whilst on the ground Volterra noticed the young unicorn stallion concentrating hard. That was when he had linked the two and spoken aloud, as his sharp mind came to the conclusion of magic. The magic to control another living creature, even one as small as a squirrel...the giant's heart thumps at the mere thought of it, the potential of it.

Admittedly it isn't as cool as being able to spike someone up the ass with a spire of pointed stone, but it comes closer than most other magics Volterra has witnessed.

The colossus wanders closer, glancing at the older male with an impassive eye. They had fought on the same side during the God battles; in the bear one especially, Volterra's slam to the beast's side had aided the unicorn's ability to spear it. Battle-brothers; the colt had been too preoccupied after the battle on his lack of gifts to be inclined to speak to his fellow victors, but now he has stumbled across a compatriot with all the time in the world to converse.

With a proud roar of victory, Vérzés catches the unfortunate squirrel and rips off its head in one movement, carrying the carcass back to Volterra. He lands heavily on the monolith's back and eats his kill messily and noisily, squirting blood down the colt's sides. For a moment, Volterra considers the fact that maybe the squirrel is bonded to the unicorn, not controlled by him; whoops, if so. His own fault for bonding to a damn rodent. The giant glances at the other male, twitching an ear lazily to rid it of a fly. He gestures towards the newly-retrieved trinket with his scarred muzzle. "Anything nice?" Or simply a byproduct of the man's urge to practice his magic? Volterra can sympathise if so. He is forever inventing reasons to create towers and hills out of stone, just to practice the earthen gift that glows within him.


[ 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 ]




Random Event Posts: 1,286
Helovian Ancient
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
#3
Volterra feels temporary relief from the BFB

Please do not forget to tag me Volterra!

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#4
Яikyn
A voice, thick with a harshness that does not match the youth of the figure that wields it, steals my attention from the pendant I have recovered with my skills. My gilded gaze is wary as it lands on him, because I recognize this colt when at last I pick him from the shadow (by the bright white of his scarred face only, the shadow swallowing his black as it does all shades of darkness), growing swiftly into adulthood as myself, I can see him moving among the throes of violence in time with my own strikes and blows, his hooves a drumbeat to which we had felled a God, among others.

"Yes," I answer, leaving it at that. I honestly don’t know much more about the power than he does, and instead turn my focuses to trying to recover from the gauze like film that the magic has left over my thoughts, the sluggish sensation in my muscles like sap grown cold.

He’s dangerous, I know this, but no less or more so than I am, even though he is taller; age has filled my bones out more, and I have experience beneath me, however slight. I probably shouldn’t be so guarded – he hasn’t done anything to me but comment on my magic with what could be called reverence in his voice if I guess the tone right.

I probably don’t.

The screaming of the squirrel is abruptly cut off as the youth wanders closer, answering my question as to where his red dragon is – I know enough of bonded creatures to know they are never far, and I have heard enough warnings about the winged beasts to be cautious. Fire, ice, lightning – whatever magic spittle they could hurl crackling through the air, the worst they had to offer was in their razor lined mouths and upon dagger tipped fingers. I had even seen some with natural weaponry along their tails.

This one, as it descends through the air to land upon the back of the colt, is blood colored and jagged, sharp like primordial stone rising from the earth as he snaps bone and sinew, splattering rodent blood all across the back of the dark youth. I eye the mess with some measure of undisguised disgust.

Well, isn’t that attractive, I think, blessing the Gods again for birthing me as the proper species, one that ever have to endure the burden of such slovenly creatures as dragons.

I look away from the grotesque dining experience to look down at the mirror against my black chest, slipped over my ears in the time I’d found it until the colt had distracted me. I hadn’t got much time to look at it before he’d intruded, but I take a moment to look it over now, its round face shining and black, polished obsidian, and though I think it is gold around it, it is paler than that which marks my own skin, studded with diamonds in its intricately weaving bands.

"It’s a black mirror," I say at last (should I feel guilty that I caused its death? It’s a fleeting thought, but I don’t). Looking back up at him from where the thing buzzes with some strange, broken force against my skin, I try to avoid looking at the dragon and the eviscerated squirrel, and instead at his pale white face, his blood colored eyes.

A smile crosses my lips, an attempt at being friendly that is poor at best, but it’s still something.

"Calor," I introduce myself, the name of my grandsire slipping from dark lips, lying with a sincerity that both Thranduil and my mother would applaud, for the Spark had not sold my name to the wind on that fateful day in which Helovia felled a God (I would have to thank him later, wouldn’t I?), "of the Basin."

I don’t bother lying about where I’m from. The stench of it is everywhere on me, and surely he saw me fighting alongside the dark roan prince Erebos.

"Ironic it would be a mirror."

in every heart a hole
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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
#5
Sorry Random Event I totally forgot!

@Rikyn so yeah he has permission to use his magic on Vol! Then if you tag RE so we can see if his sparkyness works? ;D


YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE

Yes, is the answer he receives. What a chatty one! The giant momentarily elevates a brow, flicking his muscle-ridden neck from side to side to fling his tangled forelock out of his eyes. He is so engrossed in the wet sensation of blood on his back and his immensely talkative companion that he has been distracted from his boils - he doesn't notice that their pain has momentarily ebbed, their discomfort torn away. When he does eventually cotton on to the absence of the too-familiar spotty annoyance, he wonders if it is the squirrel's blood that has eased his agonies. Could he have found the cure without even meaning to?

He hums thoughtfully, a ground-shaking rumble in his chest. He half-notices the unicorn dirty looking his dragon, and a small snort slips from his nostrils. Spitefully, the crimson beast takes to the wing and flies pointedly over the other young male, gleefully tearing at the corpse in an attempt to spill blood across the unicorn's head and back. He circles, flares his wings and lands back on his mammoth bonded, settling back down to finish his dinner with a superior flick of his tail.

It's a mirror, says the unicorn. "How pretty," drawls the yearling, sarcasm dripping from every masculine syllable. Who the fuck wants to carry around a mirror? So he can check that his mane is perfectly coiffured? Volterra has heard of the narcissism of the unicorns, but hasn't truly believed it until now. The beast would far rather keep a sharp knife about his person, as well as his prized amulets - tools for battle, not vanity.

The other manages a smile - the monolith doesn't return it, but dips his colossal head in the tiniest of nods in acknowledgement of the extended hand of...not friendship, but tolerance. His companion introduces himself, and the colt has no reason to doubt him. Why would he lie about his name? Calor, of the Basin. Mother had taught him of the Basin; the man she had fought back in Volterra's boyhood had been its king, and she taught him that they were unicorn supremists. Little wonder his equine dam had wanted to bring them crashing down into a mountain of corpses. But the titan isn't concerned that he may have a gang of marauding, mirror-wielding pretty-boys coming for his hide in the near future due to his lack of a horn - it's more interesting than anything else. Apparently Volterra's sire was racist, and the colt is keen to get into the mind of such a being, to find what makes it tick. He does not share his father's beliefs, luckily. Such blind racism only weakens one's pursuit of power. As a result, the yearling thinks of this possible-racist as something akin to a zoo exhibit, to poke and prod and dissect. "The Basin, hm?" he rumbles. "I imagine you would dearly love my hide upon your wall, then." Again a sardonic, scarred brow lifts, almost an invitation for Calor to try and bring him down.

The hulking behemoth shifts, his tail swinging lazily between his thighs. "Your magic - why don't you use it on me?" The request is perhaps an odd one - why would the beast want to be controlled like the squirrel? But that deep, dark part of him is curious what it is like to be a puppet to another's will, to lose the iron-hard part of him that is his determination. When he loses his temper, or when his bubbling testosterone gets the better of him, he loses his closely-guarded domination of his own flesh and bone; he becomes a creature ruled by his instincts, a primal, primitive beast of salacious desires and hedonistic intent. As a result, he is quite accustomed to fighting himself - nobody else is strong enough, after all! So the notion of testing himself against a magical force, against Calor's willpower, is an appealing one.

Besides, if he does ever find himself on the wrong end of a herd of murderous racists, it is best he knows what to expect.

"I am a damn sight bigger than a squirrel. Let's see what you can make me do." He shows his first flash of emotion - a small smirk, darting across his blackened lips. An invitation, a test.



[ 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 ]




Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#6
Яikyn
I look over at the boy as the odd humming rises from his chest, a single ear flicking back and my heart skip, skipping a bit faster at the notice that the dark pelted adolescent is, perhaps, not entirely sane, a sensible preparation of defenses that are always necessary when around things that snap, flail, cackle for no reason other than the compulsion of their broken minds.

Maybe he’s not that crazy, but he is after all letting a dragon drip rodent blood down his back.

It seems the crimson beast approves little of my disdain for his bonded’s poor mastery over his pet as I indulge the moon faced stag with an answer as to what I’d found.

With a crack of leathery wings the spine tipped reptile is air born, my tail swaying behind me as I slowly pivot in place to keep one golden eye trained on the thing; I don’t really care for dragons. Every story I’ve ever heard of them has colored their race in a dark, smutty light, and this encounter with the tall, dark pelted boy’s creature only adds to the stains.

Raining from above is a cascade of squirrel bits and fluids, the shadowy shape of the dragon in the dark wood above the offensive deluge; though I dodge to the side to try and avoid the disgusting mess, some of the warm, sticky liquid lands on my dark pelt regardless. My ears slam down hard on top of my head, golden eyes lacing nearly shut in utter disgust as a shiver of such runs down the length of my figure.

Anger crackles in my head, like the film of power crushing your lungs just before the storm begins, something that makes your flesh tingle, your whole body alive with the knowledge that, soon, thunder will break the uneasy silence with a boom that makes babes shiver against their dams. I take a step nearer to him as the dragon alights again upon his haunches, letting that silver skyline bloom like wildfire in the depths of a narrowed aureate gaze, dark ears knitted among the tangled locks of my mane.

I’ve heard killing one destroys the other. I had almost seen it happen, after the battle with the Bear.

”How pretty,” he says. The slow contortion of my friendly smile bends the handsome shape into one that is asinine and hateful, mocking as his words are.

The patience I offered him, the test of his subservience, they have all worn thin and failed. I am not as cold as many wolves of the north, but I am certainly not deluded to the notion of equality like the idiot Haruspex, either.

"Prettier than you’ll be if you don’t tighten the leash on your beast," I answer, pausing, no hesitation or fear lining my figure – but rather a cool assurance, a faith that, should the evening require it, blood will color the red pool beneath us.

I’d rather not, of course; he is only a child, and that he is hornless (and possibly mad) contributes to my general notion that he is a particularly talented dullard, owed pity more than retribution. The true being to blame is whatever whore spawned him – same as the case with the pale child who had dared insult Lothiriel.

At least, I think (as the colt refuses to share his name as I had, instead insulting me again), she had wings – and any good unicorn knew that having wings automatically made you a little bit insane. Even Aithniel wasn’t right in the head, as much as I cared for her.

"Your ignorance is showing," I remark, not bothering to acknowledge that I’m pretty sure he just tried to call me a pussy of some sort (go find Cathun if you want to toss that word around, he ran where I stayed), letting my tail lazily sway behind me in a visual display with how very much his arrogance is getting on my nerves, the added roll of an eye and sway of my muzzle discarding his trash talking as just that – trash, "the Basin has no walls."

And truly, it doesn’t. My thoughts are trailing of into how others build walls to try and mimic the natural ones a God gave my people when he asks a question that draws almost all my dislike of him to the back of my mind, and returns my focus more fully upon him. Though it is followed almost immediately by another insult (and not a single sight smarter than one, retorts a waspish voice in my head), I try to remain on the positive aspect of it all – he’d offered himself as a pawn to my magic, and soon I find myself so drawn to the idea that the agitation fades out of my figure to the degree that my next step is eager, my golden eyes almost sparkling with delight at the idea of getting to try it on something as large as a horse.

That it’s this guy will just have to do, I guess.

"Hold still," I bossily remark, feeling my nerves flutter momentarily that it won’t work and I’ll make an ass out of myself. I have only just now recovered from retracting my will from the squirrel, and the unknown of what it will feel like this time is exciting in a slightly terrifying way.

I gather my thoughts, feeling my will rise within me, a sensation that I have come to associate with magic; as I did with the squirrel, I focus most intently on the black equine in the shadowy depths of the forest, trying to outrank his consciousness with my own.

His mind is like a solid wall in comparison the soft grass cover of the squirrels, and I feel my mouth widen slightly in surprise at the vastness of the difference. After a second or so (which feels like eternity to me) I feel that wall bend and warp, however, and I am filled with the odd sensation of being myself and looking at myself at the same time, of being both Rikyn and whoever this guy is.

With an audible grunt I bid my will to make his right hind leg kick out, seeing a sparkling electrical light within my mind that races along nerves and synapses, down from his brain and along the length of his spine, down further still along the length of his leg until there is a hoof, and I am flying back towards his mind and jettisoned back into myself, as if propelled from the place between his eyes where a horn should be.

If the heaviness of being that hit me after the squirrel was bad, this is a whole new level. The shadow of the forest deepens and their depths broaden, weariness filling every inch of my brain so that a slow, dull ache is born right behind my golden eyes.

My head lowers, giving in to the fuzzy tiredness of my head, an ear slipping back.

"Did it work?" I ask with some measure of enthusiasm – because it truly felt like it did.


in every heart a hole
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Random Event Posts: 1,286
Helovian Ancient
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
#7
Volterra is cured of the BFB!

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
#8

YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE

Both colt and dragon are hardpressed to contain their amusement at the unicorn's reaction to drippy-squirrel-bits. Volterra manages to restrain his urge to laugh; his red not so much. The dragon releases a wicked draconic bellow, accompanied by a blast of frosty breath. "How he fight, if not like blood?" The crimson's question, spoken directly into Volterra's head via their mental bond, is a valid one; how would Calor react to the blood of a foe showering his fur? He'd probably have a damn aneurysm and have to grab for his mirror to clean up the speckles.

The other advances, threatening, and Volterra's eyes narrow, his thick muscles tensing a fraction. Could he have a battle on his hands? He dearly hopes so. He has helped slay two Gods; a blood-drenched, pissed-off unicorn with a shiny mirror and impeccable fashion sense is barely worthy of a flick of his ear. All the same, his massive head lifts upon the thick serpent of his neck, displaying every inch of his impressive size and work-honed physique. Vérzés flares his wings and releases another blast of frigid breath, so cold that Volterra feels it chill the side of his neck where it passes his flesh.

The man speaks, then, and the giant's ears dart back a fraction. "I do hope that wasn't a threat. Your blood would be a lot harder to clean off than the squirrel's." There's a small flicker of darkness in his eyes, the barbed words falling easily off his tongue. He has been trained to be a killing machine since the moment he blossomed like a broken promise from beneath his mother's tail. He is dauntless, hardened beyond his tender age. No son of Confutatis would have an easy youth - he knows pain, and he knows glory. He and this unicorn are practically swinging their balls around to see whose are biggest; an occupational hazard of coming into contact with another stallion, he supposes. He does not think the other colt a pussy, despite his jibes about the mirror; they'd fought together, after all. He does, however, think that any man who carries around a mirror must be a touch on the feminine side.

And he's just volunteered himself to be his puppet. Will he awake from the unicorn's thrall to find himself with pigtails and a pretty flowery crown?

Your ignorance is showing. Ain't no trash talk here, sunshine - it's all coming from Goldenballs over there. The Basin has no walls. "Must be dreadfully difficult to concoct secret evil-unicorn-empire plans without walls," he idly remarks, amusement dancing in his words. To him, this is just a bit of banter; he has no real emotions towards the other man. He likes to pull strings, to test boundaries; he doesn't take things personally. Now he has a tighter control over his volcanic temper, he is harder to rile up into a frenzy, and more relaxed as a result. As testosterone hardened his body and sharpened his mind, his temper grew more and more dangerous, not to mention more easily triggered - it took a lot of training to improve his mental fortitude and ensure he doesn't rip somebody's spine out for looking at him funny.

But the true test of that fortitude is about to come. The unicorn, unsurprisingly, jumps on his idea with the enthusiasm of a randy stallion being offered the chance to get laid, and the giant almost rolls his eyes. But he does as he's told - a rarity in itself - and stands perfectly still. His dragon flies to a nearby branch to finish his meal, and Volterra thins down the mental bond between them to a tiny thread. His reasoning is simple - he wants to test his own mental strength, without his dragon's assistance. And he does not want the unicorn using Vérzés as a weapon, or harming him. That would be below the belt.

Calor concentrates, and suddenly Volterra's head begins to hurt. It feels like somebody is knocking on the door of his mind, and when that fails, breaking in through a window; it isn't the soft, familiar caress of his dragon, whom he shares every thought and emotion with. It is something harder, sharper. Fuck. For the first time, a hint of fear jousts through his heart - he doesn't show it, but he feels it, unbidden, a plague in his soul. His mind is his, nobody else's, and it's being invaded. His sanctuary, torn apart. What if the golden-marked man can read minds, too? Immediately the giant begins to lock away his most private thoughts into iron-cased boxes, defending them with the willpower of the last man standing.

The muscles in his right hind leg suddenly twitch. Odd - he doesn't remember bidding the limb to do that. But, without warning, everything in his mind screams at that particular leg to kick out. Go on, coaxes his mind. You really, really want to. And he does. The urge to kick out his leg is the most potent urge he has ever felt; even more than the ache that fills his loins now he's a man, even more than the hunger to fight that has always driven him on. It's like the need to breathe; his chest constricts, like if he doesn't move that leg, he'll die.

The leg lifts, wobbles. But Volterra, black leviathan, son of the World Eater herself, does not submit so easily. His ears flatten and a growl chokes free from his gullet as he tenses every muscle in his body and fights. The leg wobbles again, coiling, ready to kick. So close. The beast and the magic fight an invisible battle, and god dammit, he cannot lose. The unicorn must already be tired from possessing the squirrel, and judging by his enthusiasm at Volterra's offer, he is new to using his gift. These are advantages which must surely work in the mammoth's favour.

His leg shudders, and his other ones brace against the ground, ready for the kick. The kick that doesn't come, because he keeps fighting. A feral, stallion's roar erupts from his jaws as he forces his leg to slam back to the ground without kicking, then collapses his entire hindquarters to sit his huge bulk down onto his back legs, crushing them beneath him. Try kicking now, bastards. Triumphantly, the colt's eyes - which had flickered shut - open again, and the pressure in his mind lessens. Sweat beads his skin as he rises back to all fours, looking at the other male and breathing very heavily. The man looks exhausted, like Volterra did when he first used his own magic; it can't have been easy to keep that up.

Calor asks if it worked, and the colt jerks his head into a half-nod. "Almost. I lifted my leg, but didn't kick. I wanted to, though. It felt like my life depended on me kicking that leg out." Brutally truthful; the colt had hated every minute. He is nobody's puppet, and coming so close to becoming one has shaken him more than he cares to admit. He knows what to expect of Calor's magic now, but he also knows he never, ever wants his mind and body invaded like that again. Physical battles do not phase him, and he can match anybody with the power of his limbs and warrior's heart, but as he has discovered today, mental battles are a whole different ballgame. It looks like he will have to train his mind more, to ensure that in a real fight, he does not become somebody's puppet, limp on his strings.

It's only when the fuzziness in his head clears slightly, and when his bond to his dragon opens into a raging river again, that the yearling realises there's something missing. A discomfort that has been with him since the wolf battle is suddenly...gone. Not just the temporary relief like when he'd walked towards Calor, but completely and utterly absent. "The boils..." Not only has the pain gone, but they have gone. When he looks to his sides, they are unblemished, clean. The hideous things are gone. He frowns, looks to Calor. "How did you do that? Since when does mind-control magic heal?" Despite the relief that floods him, he's also wary. Is there something the older man isn't letting on about his magic?



[ 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 ]




Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#9
Яikyn
"I don’t make threats," I answer, undeterred by the frosty puff which slips from Verzes’ lips, though I am curious as to why it isn’t fire (didn’t dragons breath fire?), my gaze cold and unwavering, "but I will also not be disrespected by a dragon while his master watches, allowing the behavior or powerless to wield him."

As Ashamin learned, I don’t usually provide warning to any foe, even if the enemy is but a temporary one (or a simple spar mate in view of our fellows), and the colt wouldn’t have gotten much warning but the tension of my figure if I’d decided I wanted to hit him. The warning I’d given before was just that – a warning, a suggestion, one that hinted that he had taught me he either was ruled by a beast or he was no better than one as far as his sensibilities were concerned.

The next guy might be a bit older and bit more experienced than me, he might be having a bit worse of a day and be readily available to snap that putrid little red beast in half for such an offense.

I smile. How cocky could anyone be with their soul rendered in half, tormented forever with a hollow darkness that ached?

The smile broadens into a chuckle as mention of evil unicorn empires rises – he apparently hasn’t been there, and whatever information he has is old as dirt. Things had changed in the year I was gone; I highly doubted any plots were being coiled upon the mountain that pertained to something as nefarious as the initial painting of the Aurora Basin had been.

I think of the Sentinels, and my father’s absence; I think of Zikar’s moon eyed madness and the stark contrast of Ashamin’s sun warmed, butter heart. Still, I am among them now, and I have seen the Reaper like a dark shadow prowling along the boundaries. D’Artagnan is our General now, and the silence of the tent is still solid, the magic of the God of the Spark still humming along the fabric.

Perhaps not all has been lost.

But why would I tell this oaf as much?

"A whelp of the Qian, then?" I ask, noting an old hatred to hint that the prejudice has been reversed, "would explain your affinity for things one had to build to hide stolen children behind."

Ah, sometimes I do thank my mother for her endless talking (borderline exasperated, hot aired bitching); I know a lot more than a boy my age should, and not all of it is politically correct (or having any of the other side’s version at all). This story, in particular, I know absolutely nothing of the Qian’s motive on, only my mother’s construed ideas of some sort of underhanded subterfuge – and, as previously mentioned, as will be mentioned many times again, I am skilled at talking about things I have absolutely no clue about.

Some might even say I enjoy it.

And then I’m lured away from jabbing at some group of absolute strangers (because I legitimately know only one of them, and she was actually pretty nice despite her physical detriments) by the promise of magic, of growth. I find with some measure of surprise that the boy does as I ask him to, though the dragon flies away.

Perhaps in distrust that I’d keep him out of the deal after his nasty bit of behavior earlier – it’s probably a good idea.

Then the world goes weird, and it’s hard to tell what all happened other than I come to and find the white faced stag sweating, rising up from where he seems to have been sitting in the water.

Well, that’s not what I wanted at all, but still… a smile crosses my face as he nods that it had, describing how it had felt as I’d hoped but not asked.

My small smile grows into a grin, and I find a vigorous bounciness rising from within at my success despite the wooly weariness of my head, which mildly aches at the temples now in the aftermath. Its all worth it if it means that I truly can make someone else do whatever I want them to, and with a little bit of practice…

A certain penchant for conversation shines upon me as I just absorb my delight in utter silence, smiling like some wicked devil with a fire burning deep in my aureate eyes. The possibilities are nearly shudder inducing, and as I manage to slip out of the mental trance at the promise of the power I have found and back into reality, I cannot help but wonder if that is the sweat of fear which lines the dragon child, not just excursion to evade my magic.

More than the yearning to kiss the Moon’s cheeks, I hope it is.

Ripped from my sadistic fantasies of the domination to be found in fear (knowing it from the frantic beat of my heart and the senseless flailing of my weapons in the midst of the wolves), his voice summons my attentions back from my avid thoughts.

They are gone…

A wave of crackling excitement, the drowsiness found in the aftermath of my magic is almost lost as I step closer, my motions slow but every pore on my body alive with interest in what my magic has done, gilded gaze gleaming with a fire of feeling absolutely mother fucking amazingly Godlike at this moment.

Assist in the death of two immortals in as many weeks, earning the praise of one (who happens to be the local divine)? Check. Find an artifact while learning you have puppet magic, and that you can heal people of the weird boil disease with that magic as well?

Did I just win?

I sure as Sun’s Insanity think so!

"I don’t know," I manage, "but it’s pretty fucking awesome!"


[ OOC: Lirl he's apparently full of Helovia lingo and sass today. ]

in every heart a hole
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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
#10
THE SASS IS STRONG WITH THIS ONE. Both of them though seriously xD


YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE

The man's jibes fall on deaf ears; Volterra cares little for what others think of him or his dragon. They know each other like two halves of a coin, and they know the strength that burns within both of them like an eternal flame, transcending scale colour or bloodlines. "Shall I eat him?" questions the red, hope in his voice and hunger in his heart. Best not. You might catch prissy disease. They share a mental laugh, the colt's body language showing quite how bored he is with the unicorn's futile attempts at intimidation whilst the dragon swings his tail with so much power it rips a branch from the tree.

Sure, the black can get inside his head - but that would be little use to him if Volterra lost his temper and snapped him like a twig.

An ear cocks lazily at the other's snort. Whelp? He's got a cheek - there's barely a season between their respective ages. The leviathan will turn two in a handful of weeks, although his sheer size and presence gives the impression he is far older than he actually is. The monolith of steel and stone is as far removed from a whelp as it is possible to be. "The fuck is a Qian?" The behemoth's throaty rumble holds the merest hint of a threat, the slightest glimmer of danger behind the impassive stone of his face. A darkness, lurking behind the light. A monster, hiding in the shadows.

In the aftermath of the magic, Calor is grinning like a loon. Has the magic addled with his head? In a small, smug display of his own power, the beast commands a patch of ground next to him to rise into a small tower, the same size as him. So practiced is he now that the summoning of his magic barely tugs at his strength - he holds the tower high for a moment, moulding the peak into a razor-sharp point that could pierce flesh like a knife, before releasing his magic and allowing the structure to collapse back into dirt. See? I have it, too.

Admittedly, the young stallion is hardpressed to keep an amused - and not entirely cold - smile from his face at the sheer exuberance of the other male. It reminds Volterra of how he felt when he discovered he could mould and crush the earth, that he could dominate the ground itself and save his dragon's life in the process. Boyish enthusiasm at its best. "Finally, we agree on something," he says in his usual gruff, masculine tones. Anything that can cure those godforsaken boils is indeed fucking awesome. He still cannot work out a logical reason why, however. What does puppeteering magic have that removes hellish diseases?

One ear flicks idly forwards - his mother's hard-taught manners tell him he should thank the other man, proffer gratitude for assistance. The path the World Eater and her kin walk is not an easy one, and any help - no matter how small or unintended - offered to them should be seized upon, in the hope it will happen again and further their quest for an empire. A beast he might be, but a suave one, educated and far from the brawny hulk of dumb muscle that his physical presence may imply. Alas, nothing will make him utter a thanks to somebody who just crept into his mind and rifled through his nerve endings like he would push his nose through a patch of thorns; however, he forces his head to incline in the tiniest motion of a nod, and when he speaks, his voice lacks venom, which is as close to gratitude as the other is likely to get. "I am Volterra. The dragon is Vérzés." Vérzés punctuates his point by looping backwards in the air then slamming heavily down onto his bonded's quarters, grappling his flesh with savage claws to anchor himself in place. "I suppose it is fitting that we finally meet. We have fought together twice, after all. Slain two gods." And if that's not bromance-worthy then he doesn't know what is.



[ 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 ]




Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#11
Яikyn
I watch the severed branch fly through the air to splash in the water, my eyebrows rising up at the impact with the pool’s surface.Alright then, is a sarcastic thought floating as I look back at the crimson eyed brute – what was that supposed to mean?

I’m not a tree, or anything like it, bless the Gods.

But, the rumbling voice of the ebonite man boy lets a question fly as silence stretches between my words, and the dragon’s loathing of nearby branches. It makes me laugh, a pleased chuckle that resounds with some sort of delight that the boy knows of my home, but nothing of the enemy that had once been a thorn in the mountain leader’s sides. It also means he has nothing to do with them, and I’m quite fine with that. Any threat in his voice is lost on the epiphany that strikes me with the oddly humorous wording he has used, on the perfectly arrogant and youthful lack of fear that keeps my heart beating steady in my chest.

He is but a boy, and his dragon.

I indulge him with an answer, rather than some haughty retort, so good is my mood.

"They once ruled the World’s Edge," I say, the smile of being a know it all overly privileged piece of work alighting on my handsome face (idiot horse, be educated, redeem yourself in the eyes of the First who frown upon your ignorance as much as they do your crownless brow), "a people of dragons, and of peace. They built the wall of glass. And, if your lack of knowledge of them is any guess, they are no more."

And my smile lets him know all he needs to know of how very excited I am to hear this. Erebos had made mention of there being wars which had tossed the peoples of the Edge and the Falls about, but I had never assumed that the Basin’s greatest enemy had died along with their hold on the Moon’s wood.

One delight lending to another, the colt displays his own magical power – a useless flex of muscles that makes my smile twitch broader. Have I bothered you, stone wielder?

Yet, the conversation remains tensely on the friendly side of the fence, perhaps even lowering itself down from the rickety edge to the green grass below. I’m glad, really – the hellion has shown he won’t be as easy to bloody as Ashamin had been, and it has been a long while since my last bout with Furen and the other soldiers of the Nightwalk.

Not to say a battle against a God is not a worthy bit of training, of course – but a God is not a mortal man, more appropriately your own size (though the bloke is quite a bit bigger than me, in truth).

Volterra, he offers, and Verzes. The e’s of the beasts name are long and floating, the name in sharp resistance to the harsh electric sound of his master’s calling. I think this as the devilish little sky lizard does an odd flip, slamming into the haunches of the black brute, his claws scraping against flesh.

My own skin twitches. Fuck dragons; I thank silently the Gods for the unicorn’s resistance to such a violent bond, pray for those cursed to be forever bound to such ill mannered and savage creatures.

"Aye, I suppose so," I answer, wondering what such a statement implies. Does he wish to be friends?

I look at the bare whiteness of the space between his eyes. I wonder what sort of mind rests behind their red light.

He’s already proven himself physically worthy. I owe him as much to consider him for some sort of… companionship, though he is not my choice in company.

It is my duty to lure the lost into the light of the First Gods, after all.

That I hadn’t really done much fighting (unless kicking your own dad counts) in the second battle against the wolves is not something I’m going to bother mentioning either. I was an amazing warrior of grace and power upon the field with the shadow wolves. The end.

"Your table is nice," I remark with a nice enough tone, returning my attentions to the earthen plateau he’d summoned with his magic, letting my golden eyes touch upon it as I move to leave the water, my tail swaying behind me, "is it permanent, or will it wear away after some time?"


in every heart a hole
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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

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

YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE

The fact the other stallion is so smug he could well melt into a puddle of self-satisfaction is hardly even noticed by the mammoth colt, so piqued is his curiosity about the answer to his question. A people of dragons. The ruby-red dragon snorts his derision at this comment, before flaring his wings again and boosting off from the monolith's scarred back. He circles once before disappearing into the canopy, bored of the testosterone-fuelled conversation between the two young men. The shrill squeal of a flock of birds a short distance away tells Volterra what his bonded is doing, even without the thrill of the hunt that vibrates through their conjoined minds and into his very soul. He gives the smallest of grunts as his dragon's excitement becomes his own, welling up inside him with the urge to kill something. That's the downside of being mentally bonded to such a fierce and bloodthirsty creature - it is hard to find the dividing line between colt and carnivore. But Volterra erects mental walls around himself with the same precision he lifts his stone structures, and ensures his snippets of Vérzés' hunt are limited to images, rather than emotions.

These Qian seem mysterious, and would be of more interest to him if they weren't extinct. For Volterra not to have been told of them by his world-wise mother, they must be long since dead. The giant doesn't even know about the wall of glass, but he keeps that to himself. His only flicker of reaction is the idle twist of one ear, before the conversation moves on.

Your table is nice. The beast gives a small grunt of amusement, glad that his powerful and manly magic is also a useful household object. At the unicorn's question, his refined brow shifts slightly into a frown. Truthfully, he has no idea how long his magic can last. He likes to assume the hot-tub he made for Isopia is still standing tall and proud, an eternal sentinel in her little clearing, hard and strong inside her most private place - and doesn't the innuendo of that make the weight between his thighs throb with the sheer salacious thought? - but in reality he knows it could well have crumbled into dust by now. "Truthfully, I am not entirely sure. I always destroy the structure when it has served its purpose, like the one beneath the wolf, in order to conserve energy. I assume it would slowly begin to wear away the moment I stop controlling it." He thinks of his stone knife, crafted by Parelia; if magic isn't eternal, surely that would have crumbled to dust by now? What the beast doesn't know is that certain magics can outlast civilizations, but most cannot.

He flicks his crimson gaze towards the unicorn, the tattered tresses of his tail swinging around his hocks as he does so. "What of your magic? How long could you control somebody before your hold over them snapped?" It is something of genuine interest to the youngster; the idea of the unicorn being able to control minds indefinitely is...disturbing. Surely, though, his strength would wane before could command somebody to kill themselves, for example. Not to mention the sheer drive to survive is the strongest one in existence - can magical powers override basic animal instinct?




@Rikyn

[ 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 ]




Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#13
Яikyn
The only remark I earn for all my historical teachings is one from the beast, a snort kissing the air before his wings pull him up and away into the trees. I don’t bother watching him go, glad to see him leave – even more so when the tell tale sounds of screaming birds and crashing limbs alludes to more gluttonous eating on his behalf. My ears fall into a partial backward tilt, wondering to myself if the master is as untamed as his pet, believing the likelihood is high – he offers no word to my answer as to what the Qian is, though he does gain what could be suggested as the glower of thought.

I earn a chuckle as the conversation continues, however, and my ears pull forward at the friendly sound without a single thought as to how contradictory my moods towards him have been until this point. It seems normal for a child raised as myself to go from dislike, to distrust, to a lose knowledge of one another that is almost comfortable in the way of acquaintances or distant herd mates; what I know is that it will never branch past this loose respect of this young man, not unless he proves that he has an awareness of the world around him, as heightened as I view my own.

Magic, dragons, colloquial niceties, they mean next to nothing as I my eyes touch upon his bare brow. All they mean is that he is an equine, that he, and his kin, are consequences of too long outside of Godly influence, and though he has obviously returned to the divine gaze – I look again to his table – he is no less broken than those who had no such gifts.

I listen to his words distantly, with a glazed expression often found on the ponderous features of my sire. It makes sense that the magic would fade. It is not the craft of the Divine but one of a mortal. And yet, the thought that even stone would vanish over time makes me feel a strange sense of sadness, though surely I am no stranger to it. My father had to tinker endlessly on his projects lest their mechanical bits locked up, no longer alive; why should Volterra’s stone be any different?

I nod that I understand what he has said, still stolen by the weaving thoughts of magic and creation. Such ponderings still flood my mind as he turns the question towards me, a small moment (some numerous seconds) passing before I even register he’d said something to me.

"I do not know," I answer after some time, finding that I truly don’t - I’ve only today realized it’s a thing I can actually do, but another thought does cross my mind, one I voice aloud, "though I do get the oddest of sensations that to stay too long would cost me."

Cost me how? I’m not sure. I do know that, when I dwell upon memory of the magic, it feels as if my mind is inside their mind, as if my body is a distant isle, a tether linking me through the sea to the separate island of the other I use. I small fear trembles in me that if I lingered too long in another’s mind, that tether would snap. I would be left to swim endlessly in the sea.

It’s so negative and terrifying that I don’t continue with my verbal explanation to the moon faced boy. Besides, how weak would it make me seem to be afraid of my own power? I feel like a kitty cat on the inside when I realize it, now that the excitement of success has faded into the consequences of reality.




in every heart a hole
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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

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
#14
Figured we can end it here then have an up to date thread sometime? :D


YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE

A growl of agreement leaves the hellion's throat at the other man's words. Yes - magic costs. For Volterra to summon an entire mountain, for example, would likely take the same toll on his energy as running up and down said mountain fifty-eight times, or something similar. For Calor to control somebody for long periods of time would, most probably, cost him the same amount of energy as it would for him to physically wrest them to the ground and manipulate their limbs through sheer brute force. "That is likely your survival instinct. From what I've learned, magic takes as much of a toll on your strength as physical activity does. It is not limitless - if you were to push too hard, try to control too strong a horse for too long, it could kill you. The same as if I tried to build an entire stone city with my magic." Volterra is stronger now, and his magic takes less of a toll on him. However, he knows his limits. He pushes them, increases them through painstaking work, but is always careful not to go too far.

Of course, he has the advantage of another pool of strength in the form of his dragon. Should he ever use too much magic and show signs of slipping into the abyss, he is sure his red would lend him the power he needs to survive. In addition, perhaps what Calor is describing is not survival instinct as Volterra assumes, but some other drive as a result of mental magic alone. Perhaps the unicorn's body is telling him not to linger too long in the uncharted territory of another horse's mind, that most precious of sanctums. After all, a man's mind is his fortress. Should the other stallion get trapped inside said fortress, untold torture awaits at the hands of those he has trampled to get inside.

A somewhat elaborate metaphor, but fitting, the beast feels.

He flips his heavy head to launch his tangled forelock out of his eyes. The conversation seems to have ground to a halt, and he is keen to move back into solitude. He is an outcast not only out of convenience and because he has no desire to be controlled by a herd, but also because he is far from a social butterfly, so used is he to his own company. "I will leave you to practice your...gift." Is it a gift, or it is a curse? To play puppetmaster undoubtedly comes with its own burders. "Until we next fight a God together, bábjátékos." The Hungarian word slips unbidden from his lips - puppeteer. He has a penchant for giving nicknames in his mother's tongue, and it certainly seems fitting.

With a final red-eyed glance at the unicorn, the black titan blends back into the shadows of the trees, leaving only crushed grass as a memento of his presence.



[ 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 ]




Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#15
Яikyn
The boy, for all his brutish appearance, and the simple beast of his company, seems to at least know a thing or two about magic – and I listen, mostly because I’d been taught to take knowledge from whoever is dumb enough to offer it for free, and also because the notion is intriguing to me. The thought that I could die is a bit more than I’d been thinking, and at the same time, perhaps less…

Is it worse to not live at all, or to live without recollection, without aim?

To live as the utterly mad, trapped within the confines of a mind that is either my own eternally, or not mine at all?

I manage to nod in response to his truths, and with some measure of mental force, I keep the shudder from running down the length of my figure as the rest of my thoughts tumble about: I chose death, I think. I dislike the notion of having no control over my life more than there being nothing to own at all.

Blessedly, it seems the tank of a colt gathers the same idea I do about now – that the conversation has been spent, whatever to have been gained or won from our meeting having passed from one to the other. The lure of my newfound trinket calls to me, the smooth oval of black glass alluring in so many ways…

Alluring enough that I almost don’t notice the weird thing he calls me, my golden eyes narrowing suspiciously as my lion’s tail plays behind me. It didn’t sound like a name meant as a knife, though I certainly don’t know what it means either.

Dumbass. This is Helovia, not whatever stupid nation you fell out of – but the thought stays still behind the trap of my teeth, a rough laugh barking from it instead at what I take to have been a joke.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all.

"May it die as swift as the last," I answer, no terms of endearment allotted to my statement, my own farewell nod tossed in his direction as we part ways – he through the dark foliage, and I do linger alone with my thoughts, and my prizes.

@Volterra
[ OOC: Definitely! ^^ Just let me know if you think of a certain thread thang or I am sure they'll run into each other more in the future au naturale. ]
in every heart a hole
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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).


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