the Rift


[PRIVATE] Live and Let go.

Arah Posts: 343
Outcast atk: 7 | def: 10.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15hh :: 5 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Wynter :: Royal Griffin :: Draining Clutch Frostie
#1

Arah

I see you, you see me; that's one love, let's be free.
Then paint the town, red as roses.
Sky high until the heavens open.
I bleed for it, I cry for it and I'm free falling.




The beach had never been her favourite place. Play hooves sunk into the wet grains, hair dragged through the wet earth. Collecting miles of grit and grime the ends of her hair where now stained brown, no longer silky but sticking wetly to her legs. Her pale coat shone in the sinking sun, the colours of sunset bled into her coat. Golden orbs turned out towards the edge of the world, a small smile pulled at the corner of her chops. Turning her back on the ocean, the silver doe began to make her way over the sandy dunes, heading towards The Edge. She needed to get home, had to speak with a few people and organise a few things. A trip to The Dragon's Throat was high on her priority list.

As she began to make her way home, a strange occurrence began. Mist had gathered and began swirling, collecting into a ball and beginning to shape. Long, dainty legs, tall ears and a short swing tail. The mist-like doe stepped towards her, pausing as it studied her. Completely baffled Arah simply stared back at it, wondering where it had come from and why it had appeared near her. A scream from above and Wynter dived. Talons extended, the dark magic clinging to the griffin's feet. "Uimh!" Pulling out of the dive her bonded loved overhead, watching and waiting to attack the strange creature. "Tá sé breá, nach bhfuil sí ag dul a ghortú dúinn." Smiling at the doe, Arah turned and continued on her way to The Edge, curious as a rabbit and small bird joined the doe in trailing behind her.

Strange things always happened in her homeland. She supposed meetings like this was not chance. It was fate.


@Deimos
And I ain't afraid to die, I’m afraid of going to hell.

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Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#2

Deimos the Reaper
You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this 
long and lonely road to hell
the throne must be such a sad and lonely place

The Reaper had spent a lifetime wasting away.
 
At first it'd been easy because there’d been nothing for him but the savage, layered torrents of treachery and deceit, where he could harbor naught but ill will, where he could burn under the freedom of Lucifer reaches and Satan sword handles. Then there was loyalty, and he fueled the fire beneath the banners and flags of the World’s Edge, and when they lost he beckoned more hate, more contempt, more pure, bitter loathing, reserving it for the enemies of the Basin. Then when he took the throne, when he loved and cherished and said nothing for it – thought of only action, only motion, only maneuvering through the gallows and hoping they could see what his heart was truly sculpted and carved for – he lost so much more. Every decision took him one step away from ones he used to inspire, invoke, and protect, every travel across the earth to another land brought him further away from all those lofty goals of annihilation and persecution because he had to preserve, defend, and shield those marooned in his shelter, and soon, the Lord of ice and winter and frozen boundaries felt all the more faded, withered, and decrepit.
 
He knew they’d left – one by one, marching to the beat of different drums, no longer listening to the chilling, barbaric winds, no longer yearning for the swift call of the whistling caverns, no longer rummaging past icy paths and down glacial hills. Their scent grew stale, faint, and then nonexistent, removed from the pale, gone without saying goodbye, without explaining why they couldn’t stay within the wintry walls, and he knew, somehow, someway, it’d been because of him. Some choice, some error, some decision, some rhyme or reason he’d enacted and they’d shunned; and the notion that it bothered him at all, a King of indifference and reticence, was even more incensing.
 
But he’d considered them his allies, his comrades, his companions, his friends - had risked life and limb for them and would do it all again in a heartbeat – and they slithered away, grown distant, became immersed in shadows, away, away, away from him and his heavy, overbearing crown. And like some ignorant child, he appeared weak and foolish to them, helpless and wondering, ineffectual and ridiculous, unsure and unaware of how he could repair the damage he’d caused.
 
Deimos wandered through a preferred haunt, because the widening sunset shrouded him from all the mania cluttering his skull, because the open, endless sea reminded him of Huyana and all the other things he’d lost along the way, because he’d once lived on the Moonlit Tides with his family and wondered what would become of him. Alone, sinister, beguiling, alluring, and contorted, one more crumbling shrine, one more ruinous temple, veiled in his unattainable nonchalance, he marched across the sands with no true purpose, no notion or regard, staring out at the mass of water and pondering how far he could go until he sunk to the bottom, until something reached and pulled him out or watched as he was silenced for eternity. He may not have even noticed another nearby had the shouts, had the familiar noise not loosened him from brooding, brewing shackles, had he not lifted his piercing, puncturing gaze to the mist and fog. The screech, the cry, of a griffin, not a gull, fixated his sights upon strange gatherings, upon bewitching spells, upon does and antlers and someone altogether familiar. Lost in the swirl of abyss and desolation, the Reaper peered between the layers, the mysteries, the enigmas, and merely loosened one word across his mouth. “Arah?”


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary


@Arah


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