| 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 |
 | |
On his pathway to destruction he paused to take a breath.
The prince stopped to stare at the endless shoal, at the rocky cliffs, at the pebbled dunes, and wondered how long it would take to be his. He shifted his hooves in the sand and drew firm marks in the soil, placing his figure, his stature, above the summer winds and the Orangemoon grains flickering in the distance; and swallowed the start of dreams becoming reality.
It didn’t choke him – instead, he consumed, devoured, a rapacious, ravenous ease rampaging down his throat. Revenge was toxic, indulgent, and enticing; it swarmed around him like a scabbard, like a knife, like a dagger, and he was eager to harpoon it into the side of his opponent, to lace them poison and venom and pernicious endeavors. They’d crossed the wrong boy, the wrong scion, because he’d found a way to make wishes and yearnings and coveted toils tangible. He’d watched the world blossom, he’d watched monsters ruin, he’d delved into the reign of gods, destroyed and lavished and loved, and turned his gaze to the noxious, disastrous world of vengeance and all its beloved vehemence. He could almost taste it now, a relish of ambrosia, a savoring of sinister, savage whims, coiling and curling across his tongue and along his mouth. Crushing, crashing, gnarled, and distorted – a terror building and boiling within his blood, treacherous and wonderful. For all his gallantry, for all his capricious whims and mercurial pursuits, the miniature fiend who’d once held his head in the clouds and his heart in the stars, had spun determination into a poetic, nefarious web. He’d tangled some parts together, he’d manifested sculptures and carvings, he’d struck a beguiling, alluring opus, and he’d found a way to make the realm pay for what it’d done. He’d grown from little lad beckoning his friends towards their adventure to a beast on the horizon, to a glimmer of Satan, to a cretin close to ushering Lucifer to his side. He’d brewed and brooded and gained blistering, emboldened power; no longer afraid of what could be or what was meant to come. He’d focused on the past just enough to settle his roots into their stature, to claim figments and images of those he cherished, those he craved, and then drove their memories to greater heights: justice.
The devil in his mind drew away from his side and searched along the shoreline; sable and furred and flecked with gilded monstrosities. Erebos chose to ignore Orsino for the moment, advancing upon the current, where he reigned, where he dominated, where he gloried and strung hallelujahs. His stare riveted and raptured and revered the swell of the tide, the flurry of damnation, the sweltering, indulgent, salty air holding him together – narrowing to focus on the froth and foam, laughing as one of his hooves danced on top of the water, a king, a beacon of Poseidon even when tethered to the shore. Like a storm, like a tempest, he maneuvered further into its gale, venturing in an arrogant tirade across the tide, calling to Orsino and chuckling along his chosen maelstrom.
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|  |
Image Credits
@Volterra
| 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 |
11-23-2015, 02:09 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-23-2015, 02:11 PM by Volterra.)
Your writing is too beautiful I cannot compete /weeps ;_;
@Erebos
 VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries Tangles of mane twist around the mammoth's thick neck, stormy tendrils of darkest night entwined around tight flesh. The salty air tingles his tongue and ripens his nostrils, and sea-spray beads moisture into each refined contour of his muscular frame. Vérzés flies high above, twisting and turning through the ocean wind, rising on updrafts and using his tail as a rudder to steer his acrobatic movements. For once, dragon and stallion are together; there are no mares around, and the black behemoth's sole experience has temporarily sated his thirst. Until the beast rises to hunt again, the blood-dragon can spend time with his bonded without fear of Volterra's lusts overwhelming their conjoined minds.
Rocks turn to sand, crumbly dust that sucks his heavy hooves into its thrall and tugs on each sinew. This is where he came to train when he was a boy, commanding his dragon to fly against the howling sea wind whilst he pounded through thick sand to tighten resolve and harden muscle. It worked, building him into a walking fortress, but his memories of this place are not entirely pleasant. Here he argued with his sister for the first time, here he realised that they cannot always be one, and each gust of salty air seems to fling Nymeria's name through his ears, a cruel reminder of the fact that with age comes distance. With his twin, with his dragon...adulthood has tested every ounce of the goliath's resolve and cast him into an even greater solitude.
He advances on the lapping waves, and only then does he notice that he is not alone. Another stallion stands nearby, a horned sentinel in the foam, and the leviathan's head swings around to observe him. At least, unlike with a mare, he will be able to focus on having company without nefarious thoughts vying for position in the forefront of his brain. Perhaps some company will be...enjoyable. They are herd animals, after all, and the vagabond spends his days largely alone, marshalling his thoughts, hunting for mares, training. Rarely socialising. Volterra recognises him from the God fights, but save for that he doesn't know him from Adam.
The crimson dragon descends, landing heavily on his bonded's hard flanks. His tail lashes, anchoring him in place, whilst his hungry eyes rest upon the horned man. Sea-spray tickles the feathers on the titan's hooves, tangling with the grains of sand. "You fought the Gods." The brute's primal growl of a voice reverberates even across the crashing of the waves, whilst his ears idly twitch and his bloodied gaze darts between the man and the ocean.
[ 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 ]
| 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 |
| |
Had he been given more time, the boy might have continued on his ethereal march, clambering over waves and overpowering tides. He may have coasted all the way beyond the stars, admonishing the horizon, entangling his way through other empires, kingdoms, and sovereigns, bound to nothing, no one, only the sway of his power over the water. He may have explored vast regions and scaled great heights, been forgotten about in a series of silly volleys and misguidance, been taken to elsewhere for eternity, where no one knew his name and none of his friends disappeared or died. But so many things altered his vision: the love and devotion to his family, to his realm, and the begrudging vengeance kept him tied and tethered to this world – so he simply stared below his feet as the ebb and flow rolled beneath them, watching fish scatter and sand be carried back upon the shoreline. He laughed when the ripples ghosted, when the echoes of the gulls rose and fell, when Orsino grimaced as the water splashed his fur. The fiend would have persisted in an enduring masquerade, a lively falsehood of ebullience and joviality, in pushing past the walls of hate, contempt, and loathing, had something not caught on the edge of his vision.
His eyes snapped, riveted, raptured, by the trace of a wing.
Not full of fluff and feathers like the crying gulls or the dipping swallows, but leathery, draconic.
He could hear Orsino hiss through their connection, raspy and unbound, sibilant and coarse, and Erebos could only think, could only feel, the source of his molten immorality building and building, fueled and incensed by the notion that the Colossus was here and perhaps this was his chance…
But a second look, a clearer notion and sentiment, revealed it wasn’t the painted monster’s companion at all: because this was one was furnished in crimson.
The breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding loosened, jagged and torn from his lungs, and he studied, examined, through narrowed eyes instead of wide, unbidden ones, careful and methodical, trying to calm the frantic beat of his stammering heart. He managed to offer the smallest of nods, a token balance of politeness to carve away the prior sentiment of absolute rage, and Orsino rolled his eyes, settling in a pout near a massive rock. The boy, however, chose to forego anything more than nonchalance on his face, glancing at the stranger with particular nuance and detail – because he’d sworn he’d seen the massive beast somewhere – black and white, not unlike the murderer, but he had no grudges with this one. He knew naught of him. The stag was not a friend, not an ally, not a comrade, but as of yet, also not an enemy.
You fought the Gods; his words reverberated along the watery surface Erebos stood upon, and the prince’s lips hastened a ruffian, roguish smile. The other monster had given an answer in one form or another, no name, but a place, a segment, of where they’d passed each other. Perhaps while Erebos haunted with fire and darkness, the other had chiseled away at ligaments and arteries. Maybe while the scion bent and scraped and harpooned his way alongside his brethren, this lad had whittled and absconded, helped and aided. He tilted his head, reprised the role of curious onlooker, not a beast waylaid by reprisal and abhorrence, and stirred the amiable quality of his voice, never quite losing the impish sketch of his grin. “I did.” He paused, stepping off of the surf as a king descends his throne, tracing over the foundation of sand and dirt. “How did you fare?” Then, extending more tactful, diplomatic yearnings, he proffered introductions, regal, noble, defined by things he’d learned, by how he wanted to scale the world. “I’m Erebos – who are you?”
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| |
Image Credits
@Volterra
| 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 |
VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries At first, the unicorn does not seem enamoured with the titan's presence. For a moment, he thinks perhaps he will be greeted with an attack, and he finds his muscles quivering in anticipation, whilst his dragon rears on monstrous hindquarters and snorts a twinkle of frost from his nostrils. But no attack comes, and the beast allows himself to relax. So does the blood-dragon on his master's back, and the red's gaze shifts from the unicorn towards the fox-like creature on the ground, so similar to Mongrel. Volterra returns the stallion's nod, thinking it safe to assume now that the other's first impression had been a case of mistaken identity rather than any real malice.
The mention of the God fight seems to please the other, as it would if it was mentioned to Volterra. Playing such a part in all four fights was, perhaps, his proudest moment, and he thinks of them all regularly. Like his darling uncle Ode, such memories bring a tingle to the loins, although he never goes as far as the immortal one did. Still, though, he wears his scars from the battles with great pride, trophies of war. How did you fare? is the question in return, and a dreamy look floats across the draft's gaze as those memories assault him yet again. "Rather well. Each God felt my blows, and a couple of them even fell to them." Knocking the legs out from beneath the Gods so the children of their own deities could land the killing blows...such poetry! With the whole of Helovia as his witness, Volterra had ascended, a warmonger with a steel blade.
It had been glorious. Bloody and beautiful, like any good battle.
"And you?" The waves continue to lap at the hellion's feathered feet, and with a small grunt he feels Vérzés depart his back and soar towards the open ocean. Through his dragon's eyes, the stallion sees beneath the waves as the ruby king dives deep, plunging amongst the fish and causing chaos in their shoals. His jaws snap tightly around one and he emerges from the foam in an eruption of salty water, his still-wiggling prey clutched firmly between his hooked teeth. He lands back on Volterra's withers - with such force he pushes an oomph from the beast's lips - and devours his prey loudly and greedily, a lazy and arrogant display of his hunting prowess. A mixture of seawater and fish innards splatter the back of the behemoth's neck, and his nostrils shrivel in disgust.
The unicorn introduces himself, and Volterra returns the favour. "I am Volterra, the dragon is Vérzés." At mention of his name, the crimson demon looks up from his dinner, but within a fraction of a second he is rummaging back down into the guts of the fish to pick out the choicest morsels.
[ 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 ]
| 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 |
| |
He remembered the slaying of beasts: the feral disregard, the callous sway, the indulgent, chaotic fray as they all unleashed one ferocious tirade after another. It had been wild, ambitious, and lethal, a smoking gun of treachery and dissolution, and he’d loved nearly every moment of it – shirking deities that were not his own, carving and sculpting and whittling his way across seams of marrow, blood, and bone. He’d dined with others in the furthest reaches of hell, searching and scouring for purpose and becoming lost in the yearning, in the toil, in the burning echoes of damnation and serenity; a fine discordance lacquered in enmity, acrimony, and heartlessness. He never thought to care about the other Gods and the lands they’d lost, he never bothered to wonder over why they rose against the surges of Time, Darkness, Earth, or the Sun, never questioned when and where, never asked how, simply surged amongst the din, the throng, and craved bloodshed. He hadn’t been as successful as the newcomer boasted, but he’d been amongst the brutality, the barbarity, swinging away, igniting, inciting, rejoicing when he caused damage, laughing, mocking, and delving deeper, deeper, deeper into the whims of the violent, the satanic, the savage. It didn’t even occur to him to feel inadequate next to the titan and his nefarious exploits; because he knew one day he’d hold power too, wreak havoc, pluck and unravel his enemy’s heartless ploys, ensure vengeance was met with equal measure.
So while Erebos listened to the older, broader, mercenary lad, reality struck a chord in them possibly being kindred spirits. The pride carried in the blackguard’s voice, the notion, the sentiments, the images of holy beings falling below his blows, his daggers, his motions, was enough to spark, incense, and coil schemes in the blue scion’s skull – so much so that the impish texture of his grin took on a more amiable quality. His regal cranium tilted, intrigued and interested, as Orsino rumbled and grumbled at his feet, watching the dragon feast as more introductions were extended, as more spells and invocations worked their way through the bellowing surf and the recoiling grandeur. This beast, with his capable arms, with his soulless munitions, with his eager, keen interest in crusades, could be one more on his side when the world crumbled, when requital beckoned, when his opportunity finally arose. “Well enough,” the boy added, still grinning, having no need to curl long-winded tales; the lies would catch and snag. Instead of delving into pretenses or deceptions, the prince followed a carefully-tread path, setting out pieces of bait for his favored snare. “I was much more satisfied in spilling the blood of my enemy,” and then he smiled again, wide and full, a cat eating a canary, then gesturing out towards the billowing waves and the red dragon floating above the sea. He watched for the longest of moments, a witness to the hunting, avaricious reptile, and wanted to laugh because they were all brutal and violent at some point, for some reason, for some time.
He didn’t fight the notion – he reveled in it.
“A pleasure, Volterra. This is Orsino,” he gestured to the bundle of bristling sable at his feet, ignoring the dirty looks and the grumpy snarls, paying more heed to the ebony stag, stoking and refining his efforts. “Are you from around here?” Any other time, he may have taken a more designated interest in the companion (because he’d once been fascinated with the concept of dragons, all wrath and fire, all wings and terror, but then he’d seen one with him and the opulence had faded), but his eyes remained ever fixated on the Stygian beast, conjuring plans and mayhem behind the piercing slate of his stare.
| |
| |
Image Credits
@Volterra
| 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 |
VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries I was much more satisfied in spilling the blood of my enemy. The young stallion glances at the horned one, intrigued. "You are rather young to have already made an enemy," he remarks. The two are of a similar age, and Volterra certainly had none he considered enemies. Not yet. He accepts that there is plenty of time for such nemesises to manifest themselves, but for now he takes pleasure in the simple act of bloodshed, whoever the target may be. Truthfully, though, none have yet annoyed him enough to land themselves in the danger-zone known as being Volterra's enemy. He can't help but wonder what this unnamed man (or woman) has done to earn the ire of the unicorn standing before him. Insulted him? Bedded his mother? Slaughtered his friend? The behemoth doesn't want to ask, but he half hopes Erebos decides to freely tell.
The other male introduces his bonded, too, and Volterra glances down at the fox. Kitsunes, along with bronze dragons, are the creatures of his youth. His dam's Mongrel with his savagery, and his uncle Argen's Solomon with his raw beauty...Vérzés is less enamoured, shrivelling his nose at the fox in between ripping chunks from his fish. To him, anything that isn't a dragon is inferior, and therefore prey. Even some horses that aren't his bonded fall victim to his lecherous gazes and rumbling stomach, although Volterra tries to prevent this where he can.
Erebos asks if he's from around here, and the giant nods to the far distant horizon. "I was born over there, in the Heavenly Fields, and have never ventured outside Helovia. What of you? Are you a native?" Of course, sometimes the beast had grown curious about what lived out there, in the wilderness outside Helovia. His father comes from there, of course, where he rules his herd, or so mother taught him. He wonders if dragons and magic live there, as they do here, or if it is a dead space of normality. Perhaps, one day, if Helovia grows too small and constricting for his needs, he will venture out and see.
[ 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 ]
| 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 |
| |
Erebos had never gone out of his way to snag an opponent for himself – the opportunity had simply been garnished out of deceit, mayhem, and bloodshed. For all his intents and purposes, his world before Arwen’s death had been mischief, dreams, and wishes, days spent claiming wisdom from each and every source, seasons christened with aspirations and collisions, laughing at the way his friends joked and marveling over their adventures. He’d rarely worried, only wanted - a companion, friends, adventures across green grass and knotted roots. The world had only tilted when death sang a disturbing lilt in his ears, when violence meant something other than a scratch or loss of hair, when might and power crashed, gnarled, and distorted things he’d cherished, and he’d been too late to do anything about it. The world had spiraled further out of his control when he’d become naught more than one more being marching across the grounds, not a prince, not a scion, not a disciple of anything other than a pawn of someone else’s schemes; and he gnashed his teeth together, declared mutiny as a peon of fate, and laced determination in the art of vengeance. It’d been disturbingly easy to invoke and charm his intentions into something real, something meaningful, something that others wouldn’t be able to simply ignore. He found anger, he relished abhorrence, he savored wrath because it was a tangible piece of his schemes, of his notions, of his stratagems and snares. He could understand hate – how it spurned and led others to do great, horrible, terrible things, how it fueled and instigated and incensed, how it caused weakened creatures to fall apart and malicious cretins to rise. The beast didn’t know which he’d become, but he knew the road there was due to be littered with the ichor and wailing of his enemies. He just needed time. He just needed allies. He just needed everything to fall perfectly into place.
So he looked at Volterra, at his power and his brawn, heard the intrigue, the curiosity, funnel from his voice, and set the trap closer – at first, only his stare resonated across the ocean, glancing at the wide open palace, the searing lizard, the emblazoned future open to them, and parted his mouth to impart the short story. “A painted beast with two dragons murdered my friend. I was too late to stop him.” The slated gaze filtered back to Volterra, and perhaps the other stallion would be able to see the sparked of malice tucked in there, past the Cheshire grins and the layered, lacquered amiability, brooding and brewing in such a riotous din it was a wonder the boy had yet to explode from his loathing. “We were all children, and for the longest time, I couldn’t understand why that fiend would want to destroy someone innocent. She didn’t deserve it.” He swallowed the bitter nuances and looked away again, listening to the short hisses of Orsino and his promises of treachery, unfurling all the demonic sentiments stored in his tiny, kitsune body; the boy almost laughed.
Then the topic shifted, and he was allowed to have the earnest, smidgen of pride for a kingdom he’d always lived within, for a palace of ice and a sovereign of chilling, acerbic whims, where power was absolute and hate curled in the pits and pendulums. While the Heavenly Fields was probably a wondrous place to live, dream, and prosper, the boy couldn’t help feeling biased towards the beautiful land of glaciers and snow, of deep, resonating valleys; where he’d spent years cultivating strength and diligence, where he’d learned how to grow strong, how to harbor and harpoon resolution. The lad didn’t stop the regard in his voice, the delight in his vocals. “I was born in the Aurora Basin.”
| |
| |
Image Credits
@Volterra
| 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 |
VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries At the description of the murderer, a small smirk slips unbidden onto the young stud's face. Ah, of course - had he expected it to be anybody else but Abraham? Two dragons, a penchant for bullying those weaker than him...there is only one who fits that description, and the black behemoth's front fetlocks begin to tingle. They, like the stallion they're attached to, remember being bathed in the fire of a white dragon because he told the truth, that whites are the peasants and whores of the dragon kingdom, not queens. He had been but a boy at the time, a handful of months old, and had he been older, he'd have snapped the bastard in half. As it was, he was forced to submit, to bend the knee for the first and only time in his short life. He'd always respected the older male in a twisted, younger-brotherly way, but he'd never liked him.
Erebos continues, pointing out that the slaughtered one was just a child. Again, it is not a surprise. The painted hybrid had tortured a dying mare - he preys on the weak, the defenceless, not the healthy, the fit, the able to fight back. Volterra finds it quite pleasing that somebody has lived to see what happened, and that Abraham now has a powerful, fit young male after his blood. That will prove whether he holds any strength in his heart, or whether he's just a flat-track bully who folds when faced with true opposition. Volterra is certainly interested in the answer to that. "Ah, I believe I know who you speak of. You spilled his blood, them? I imagine that was immensely satisfying." That must have been the scuffle he saw during the last God fight.
The unicorn states that he's of the Basin, and does Volterra detect a hint of pride in his voice? He remembers Rikyn, their conversation, how the beast had expressed surprise that Rikyn was willing to speak with him, an equine. He also thinks of Deimos, the death-wielding one who fought and defeated Mother, who the young earthen titan has placed upon a pedestal of the ultimate enemy. One day, they may tangle as the Reaper did with the World Eater, only unlike his esteemed dam Volterra is sure he will not fall. "The Basin, hmm? I've heard some tales of your home, and met a few of its residents. It is a place I would rather like to visit, if my forehead wasn't so disgustingly bare." He smiles a tight, humourless smile, scanning the other stallion for signs of reaction, to test whether he holds racism in his veins. Volterra, unlike his sire, is not racist, yet he holds a vested interest in those who are - like zoo exhibits, he examines them, pokes and prods them, learns from them. After all, ignorance is as interesting as it is odd.
[ 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 ]
| 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 |
| |
The prince watched his fire-forged friend carefully, scrutinizing miniscule movements and tangible exchanges. He saw a smirk claw unbidden along the others’ mouth, entangling in a nest of intrigue and interest, and the boy’s brow arched again, pondering over the possibilities of his story being just one of many. He’d known the Colossus had machinated other ridiculous misdeeds and sins; stolen from one more child, taken from an infant, absconded with anything and everything he wanted because he was naught more than a brute, a menace (and the scion wanted to become one too – a cretin for a cretin, a fiend for a fiend). There must have been other tales of tortured souls and ruined whims, mercurial pursuits from a demon who used force, who used size, who used Goliath mentality to snag and steal from the innocent, from the inept. But Volterra spoke, knowing who it was – and he’d become one more of snares, traps, and deceitful measures, he’d become part of Erebos’ calculations – the lad could feel Orsino’s sibilance through their connection, an unwavering multitude of the disastrous and the contorted, one distortion closer to an ambition satisfied. But he craved more, his nefarious heart bending and breaking, choking and smothering, body avaricious and covetous, acquisitive and mercenary, claiming and yearning and twisting and annihilating, ghosting for the truth, for justice, for revenge: all so close and yet so far. His voice smoothed over the slithering proportions of wave and surf, fanning amidst the details, the particulars, of this timely meeting. “It wasn’t enough.” The latter was the truth immersed in all the unwinding circumstances – it hadn’t been enough to lacerate sinew and flesh. He craved disaster and ruin upon the painted devil. He yearned for catastrophe and calamity upon his enemy. He longed for the others’ life to be abolished and decayed, withered and torn, in shambles, in pieces, in broken, depilated shards. It wouldn’t bring Arwen back, but it could satisfy the deep, dark loathing swallowing his soul, or merely awaken more. The future had yet to be cast. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the sea, coiling his features back to Volterra’s in a striking semblance of regal fortitude, determined cataclysm in the form of a slender boy. “I won’t be satisfied until he’s destroyed.” His speech ended on a smirk, on a snicker, on a devilish, impish smile, as if he didn’t care at all who heard it. The declaration was a terrible, abominable truth – and if the Colossus knew he was coming for him, then so be it. He’d long since cast his fortune the day he murdered the filly in gold.
Would you like to join me in the hunt? He almost asked.
Their attentions diverted for a span, back to homes instead of revenge, back to lands and empires and sovereigns instead of a cycle of merciless designs. Erebos wasn’t surprised to know Volterra had heard of the Aurora Basin – hadn’t everyone? Weren’t they full of legends and strife? Weren’t they all harbingers of destruction and rapture? Weren’t they all someone else’s ghosts, alive and writhing, eerie and unearthly? He wanted to piece together what Volterra had heard, what he claimed, which myth fell where, what secrets had been shared, what he could correct from some ineffectual claim, but he remained silent, steady, and sure, one more beacon of ice and rime. The youth tilted his head in an air of curiosity, gaze glancing to the others’ brow at his mention at a lack of a sword or rapier – and shrugged it off, face rendered in a display of nonchalance. Erebos had yet to assign hate to lumps of species or beasts – his abhorrence, his vehemence, was reserved only for those who had bristled, who had condemned, who had dared to warrant his foul, nefarious thoughts. Volterra was not among them. As far as he knew, the black beast hadn’t committed a crime upon his family, herd, or friends. He hadn’t consigned a fellow patriot to oblivion. In fact, he’d never even heard of the other boy until now. Easygoing and amiable, affable and generous, swinging from resolute, adamant lad to generous, charismatic colt, he proffered his sentiments without malice, without barbarity, grin neatly in place all over again. “Oh, you should come sometime! I could bring you. I doubt anyone would mind.”
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| |
Image Credits
@Volterra
| 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 |
12-29-2015, 07:52 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-16-2016, 08:41 AM by Volterra.)
VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries It wasn't enough. Ah, it seems that the painted hybrid really does have a nemesis, a foe who won't stop until his blood stains the earth. "Happy hunting, Erebos." He would rather like to watch that particular fight should it ever occur - to see who falls prone to the ground and who lives to conquer again. If the beast were a betting man, he truly wouldn't know where to throw his money. One thing is for sure, though, he will surely follow this little feud with interest.
It almost makes him wish that he had somebody he hated, to plot and plan against, someone whose downfall would pollute his dreams and steal his waking thoughts. It would give him a purpose, to lend a reality to his training, an ambition, a goal.
But nobody has yet made the fatal mistake of pissing him off.
He scans the unicorn's face for a reaction to his words about the Basin, hunting for any little telltale glimmer of racism, of misguided hatred. He finds nothing; this pleases him. For all his eagerness to get himself an enemy, he isn't fool enough to make one without good reason. As Erebos doesn't appear to loathe him based on his naked forehead, he has no danger of falling into that category. When the eager young stallion invites him with him to the Basin, Volterra's eyebrows almost raise past his ears. That is a sweet sentiment, but for all Erebos knows, he could be a murderous spy just waiting for a free ticket into the snowy north, so he can slip his blade between the ribs of the king and queen. He feels he should point this out, and, indeed, he normally would - tact and Volterra are no bedfellows. Yet what little tact he does possess knows that throwing somebody's hospitality back in their face is a pointless way of creating resentment where none yet exists, and there is little need for that.
But now for the acid test, the true discovery of what Erebos does and doesn't know about his king - Volterra, of course, is blissfully unaware that he is speaking to the Basin's princeling, son of the Reaper himself. The unicorn's reaction to his following words will tell Volterra whether Erebos is a man who carries the indoctrination of his elders upon his young shoulders, or if he sheds that weight in favour of open-mindedness, of making his own decisions. If, indeed, they are doomed to be enemies based on crimes that aren't their own, or if they can ever become something akin to friends. "That may not be the wisest idea. You see, ah, the Basin's king and my mother have a....history." He dribbles this tiniest trickle of honeyed information towards Erebos' ears, tantalising, just begging to be picked up on and questioned.
[ 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 ]
| Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE |
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Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
& Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch
Heather |
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Something snapped. Something pierced through his mind. Something wrapped its way around his recollections like a wraith, like a phantom, collecting fragments of thoughts and memories, and scattering them around his skull. He was riveted, engrossed, shackled and tethered to the line (and maybe he was being trapped too – he’d set his foot in a different snare), ignoring the happy hunting quip and being completely, utterly absorbed in Volterra’s final words.
He knew his father’s history. The Reaper had told him tales. His mother had regarded them as particles of myths and stories. He’d attended herd meetings, he’d listened to the chimes, to the echoes, to the reflections of actions and transgressions – and the prince had an inkling of which mare had a history with the Lord Deimos.
Confutatis.
He’d never met her, but her name had been strung between the caves and the icicles, the grottos and the prison, when he was small and tiny, dreaming of the future and not becoming paralyzed with notions of fear or grandeur. Her title had always rung with sinister connotations, savage inflections, like a hiss, like a dagger, like a sibilance slithering through the grass. It’d had made him think of asps and cobras, slinking and biding, unwinding and unfurling. She’d been a predator, unwavering and undaunted, yearning to press her fangs into the necks of the Basin inhabitants. The mare had snagged and irked and irritated, before finally getting what she wanted.
Asch, Arwen, and Arah had been among the taken. They’d been tortured under her regime. They’d been molded and melded and scalded – and eventually, they had all disappeared – some by murder, some by no explanation.
It hadn’t stopped there, because she’d tried to snatch the gilded Thief, that strange, savage creature with his pelts and his hides and his jewels, and his father had followed her down into the Rotunda and returned with her armor. Even then, after defeat, Confutatis had tricked to pick him, the little blue boy, the Lilliputian, infantile prince.
They’d said she’d had children.
His gaze reflected none of these inner dwellings, none of the mysteries and unraveling mementos, key, deliberate incantations. Instead, it was a mark of spellbound wares and entrenched curiosity, as if he didn’t have a clue, as if he was thriving on the potential enigmas, on the series of circumstances leading him down these vast plains and columns. An act, a pretense, a shaping of masks and roles remained perfectly in tact along his face, ears pricked, stare engaged, stolen by the hanging reverie. His voice reflected endless inquisition and interest, shaped by the thousand possibilities, the weaving of myths, the stories, the slabs, the tomes, of legends. How would the black beast carve his mother’s accomplishments? How would he see the feast of fools? How would he cast and roll the die? “Really? Do tell!” The ebullience echoed, the excitement brewed, and all the while Orsino hid his grin, and the youth concealed his secrets. He was treading within treacherous lairs, and it curled through his heart like a mischievous coil, like a furtive, deceptive, specious scheme.
Perhaps Volterra was not meant to be a friend. Perhaps he was another destined enemy or opponent, concocted from birth, misshapen and misaligned. Or, perhaps, others were meant to see the world differently, and he would just have to remember to watch for dragons on the horizon.
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Image Credits
@Volterra
| Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5 |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE |
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Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath
& Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath
Snow |
01-16-2016, 08:38 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-16-2016, 08:40 AM by Volterra.)
VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries He thinks he could have touched a nerve; he watches the unicorn's face, heart pounding with excitement, eager to see any reaction. His tail arches, the tangled tips tickling the surface of the water, his crimson gaze riveted on Erebos. Mongrel blood runs through the black beast's veins, and he has never shied away from that. His mother, in all her infamy, is born of wolves and whores, snakes and thieves, darkness and murder and cold black hearts. But, god dammit, she's magnificent. She shed the chains of her gender and rose to be a thorn in the side of kings and queens alike - she, lowborn mare, feared and loathed by the greats.
And now it's down to her children to follow in her hoofprints. A heavy legacy for such young shoulders to carry.
Really? Do tell. The giant's gaze narrows for a moment, suspicious. He is no scholar, no expert at detecting lies - he doesn't know whether to believe the unicorn's wide-eyed innocence, or whether to look through it to the trickster below. But, he reasons, what is the harm in telling? It's not like it's a secret - anybody of a certain age knows of the World Eater and her deeds. The only things they perhaps don't know is that she has spawned twins, bastard-born demons conceived of war and lust with a destiny to destroy. And so what if the Basin finds out of his existence? He has not yet harmed them himself - chances are, the northern herd won't wish to reignite a feud that seems to have been dead for years.
"I am surprised you don't already know." He fixes his gaze on the unicorn, wishing that he were as intelligent as his twin, as sharp-minded and able to see the lies in others even as he weaves them himself. "Does the name Confutatis ring any bells?" He tilts his massive head, questioning, unwilling to speak further until he knows what Erebos knows.
[ 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 ]
| 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 |
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Perhaps there were two playing games now; circling one another, poking at snares and traps, glancing past specious venues and charismatic smiles. They were dual beings ensconced in legends’ shadows; inevitably, the soulless, rapacious chords of their kin would slink between their veins and intertwine amidst their cores, their souls, their essence. Erebos had to wonder how much of Confutatis bled into Volterra’s pursuits, motives, and thoughts – if one day he’d wander into their midst and try to rip them all apart, if he’d continue the ways his mother set before him – corrupting, instigating, kindling, and incensing a bloody, barbaric feud. How many times would the cycle bear repeating? How many hours would they whittle and flay away, donning their vengeful armor and their vehement pride (he’d already conjured a lifetime’s worth simply in mutinous sentiments and efforts – this would be more contempt, more loathing, spiraling and curling and coiling through his blood)? Would it end the same then, if he restarted her illustrious movements and motions? Would Volterra be seething and slinking and stalking their icy corridors, and would their chilling, acerbic empire fight back (of course his mind repeated over and over, because he knew his father and he knew the way his world machinated – he’d be there too, the little prince smoldering and rampaging, forgetting and forgoing the days where dragons and kitsunes could have been allies or fire-forged companions)?
The boy watched the others’ gaze narrow (in uncertainty? In distrust?), allowing his to remain unchanged, ebullient, exuberant, a Cheshire cat’s guile glinting behind a kindled pretense. There was a yearning, a need to hear the others’ side, to ponder and understand why the wench had committed such atrocities, such animosities, such unholy, irreverent things, to those of his own nation, of his compatriots, of his friends. He hadn’t understood it, hadn’t managed to devour or relish the reason behind her actions – except pure, antagonistic chaos, the way bedlam sprung from shadows, the way mayhem clung to hollowed vessels, the way menace shifted and fractured and drained everything around it whole. Had it been greed? Had it been glory? Had it been the satisfaction of knowing she’d been able to take from the Basin, from the powerful, from the potent, from the dangerous?
And after all of the melee, rubble, and ruin, what did Volterra seek?
His ears flicked at her calling pooling from the dragon-lad’s voice, as if beckoned by curiosity, by intrigue, by interest; diving headlong into the layers and lacquer of heresy left long behind. The scion’s head tilted a fraction, his eyes glinted in absolute reverie, enticed and beguiled, while Orsino looked on, silent in his vigilant regard. “Confutatis,” he tasted the word on his tongue, listened to the rattle of poison and rasp of venom on the final syllable, heard the sneer, the violence, behind each sound. “It sounds vaguely familiar.” Then, Erebos, poised and prosed, delved further into the rabbit hole, polishing avaricious refrains, treading carefully, cautiously, as if he wandered through the vast world of ice ignorant and unaware – when he knew and grasped and snagged so much more. “Did she do something?”
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Image Credits
@Volterra
| 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 |
VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries He is prodding a nest of snakes, just to see what lashes out and poisons him. Is the other playing him at his own game, taunting him, besting him? Volterra is not built for such tantalising, teasing tests of wit; he is created for battle, because bloodshed he can understand. War, he can comprehend. The delicate knit of politics, where a raised brow can be a threat and a twitching lip an invite for a lifelong alliance - no, it isn't him.
But, just this once, his hand of cards will get him further than his hooves of steel and teeth of menace. He just has to figure out what he's doing, how to play this game.
Erebos, on the other hand, seems quite the expert. Is he lying? Volterra cannot tell. He hates feeling so inferior, and his ears bat momentarily backwards as his brain cells trip over each other to find something to respond with. "She did everything," he purrs. "She was the thorn in the side of many an empire, the snake in the grass of more herds than I care to recall. She and the Basin's king did not get along, although I daresay she did not see him as any true threat to her - she thought it quite the delightful game to push against him, as she knew he'd rise to it." His voice is pure innocence, but his wicked eyes gleam. He fixes them on Erebos, wondering if the older male will rise to the insult, whether he'll let slip his masquerade mask and display the beast beneath. Does his unicorn pride and love of his herd overwhelm his desire to play this game? Of course, Volterra isn't lying - he is no good at that - but he's twisting the truth to suit himself, turning his own opinions into cold hard facts and wielding them as weapons.
[ 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 ]
| 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 |
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Too many spun circles and not enough knots in snares – the speculation, the immorality, the soullessness, the lies were so imminent, so scathing, so tangible that all he wanted to do was snicker, chuckle, and laugh in the dark maze they’d found themselves in. He saw the tangles, the mess, the leisurely way in which they both strolled through a quandaries and crevasses, trying to trap, trying to deceive, trying to outmatch and outwit. But the conspiracies, the plots, the ruses were bigger than them – shadows of what their parents had done, speckles and rusted spots of action and nefariousness. Still, he wanted to sink his knife into something, an outright fabrication, a ridiculous pretense, a feature of foolishness and ineptitude to spear Volterra within, or use to fish him out, a game of zealous cat and mouse and it wasn’t certain which was the feline and which was the rat. There were so many twisted beings within their world, and they were all difficult to understand, to fathom, at some level – why they did the things they did, what flaws befell their plots, what goals lay withered at their feet – and Volterra was the same way. Did he want to bend the world as his mother had tried? Did he want to shape new empires and cities? Did he want desecration and disaster? Or to simply be, exist without his dam’s shadow or animosity, cross creeks and river beds and claim things for himself without her name behind him?
She did everything.
Yes, what a thing to be proud of – torturing innocent children and their mothers. What a wonderful tale to tell youths at night. What a spell to weave over the hearts of many.
A notion stirred against his heart and he ignored it as it began to burn, flame, kindle a well-worn facet of hatred.
Oh, but there was the machination, dripping and tearing and lashing out from their coils. Knew the King would rise to it - as if she’d had any recollection, any nuance of what his father was. The boy knew his father, knew the way he lived for the Basin, for the icy chambers, for the wintry gallows, for the haunting, poignant peaks, knew the ways he calculated, schemed, and distorted to get what he wanted. Confutatis had been one more thorn amongst many; and hadn’t they triumphed and trumped them all in some way, in some fashion? He didn’t rise to the bait, to the challenge mustered within the menacing, insipid tale. Erebos remained unchanged, staring with the same demeanor, with the same intriguing vigilance, as if he’d only heard bits and pieces, as if he only knew the frothing edges of all that mustered hate and glory, ears pricked, grin ready. “But she lost, didn’t she?” He threw the barb, hoped it sunk in like more and more nettles and harpoons, craved a glint in the façade, a disruption in the pretenses and speciousness building between them. “I haven’t heard of her since.”
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Image Credits
@Volterra
| 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 |
VOLTERRA
you will remember me for centuries His eyes flash dangerously, and the ground beside him begins to bubble as his magic rises to the surface.
That often happens when he's angry. His magic lives in the part of his soul that's easily tainted by his moods, and whenever rage begins to burn through his system, his powers are one of the first things to be struck by the frisson of electricity. The ground aches to erupt into a spire, a great mountain of stone and blood-spilling sharpness, but the beast stifles his temper and forces the earth to remain as it is.
Perhaps he shouldn't have broached this subject, when his temper is so volatile and his mother is so precious.
She didn't fucking lose. Mother could lose to no mortal, when she was so much more than any fool that ever dared cross her. "Her name is still spoken of with fear in these lands, which I think she would consider a victory." He sniffs, stretching the rippling muscles of his neck without ever letting his piercing gaze leave the young unicorn. "Besides, I know Mother. Anything she does, she does for a reason. Take nothing at face value with her; lose a battle, be captured, everything she does is planned and plotted. Her endgame is anybody's guess." It's a trait that Nymeria has, too. That slyness, the deviousness, the ability to meticulously plot every single movement, to wrap a victory up as a loss....it is not Volterra's forte, but his mother and sister are masters at it, at deception. They are queens of the subtle; he is the king of the obvious.
But it is of no worth for the young beast to make an enemy today. As much as he craves one, he is not quite fool enough to think he should create one out of nothing. "But we digress." His voice is a rumble, a grating rasp that masks the fury he's still trying to quell. "Now you know whose womb I spilled from, do you still think your Basin would be so keen to harbour me?" For all they know, Volterra is the sleeper cell created by his dam to finish her hard work; the ultimate pawn in her games. He isn't - to his knowledge - but nobody else needs to know that. The mammoth tilts his head in question, his gaze still neutral despite the fire that bubbles within.
[ 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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[P] Blaze rage red is the color of youth
