| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None
kels |
 like punching in a dream, breathing life into a nightmare|
It is the dark slate of the cavern's walls that swims in to focus first, the blaring sound of silence that sends sparks of light across your vision, the rusted scent of blood (so strong that you can taste it on your tongue, despite your lack of understanding) that trickles through your consciousness. At first it is only enough to cringe from the noise of the world around you, blinking rapidly as your eyes stare out in to the bleakness of the first hesitant breaths of winter, watch as your own breath spirals outwards, dissipating until there is nothing left to be seen. Somewhere within the fogginess of your mind there is an urgency, something, an unnamed fear, that claws and pulls at you, settles a sense of panic in to your bones. Only as you try to gather yourself, your breath catching in your throat as you attempt to listen to anything but your own wild heartbeat, the ringing in your ears, do you become aware of something that sends a tremor down your spine: another's breathing has filled the absence of yours.
Your head shoots up entirely too fast and you scramble for some sense of stability as the world spins and pieces of memory flood your tired mind, the cause for that strange urgency sunk somewhere in your consciousness becoming alarmingly clear. A whimper escapes you as you think to search for him, for the child that you had brought in to this world, fleeting images of your first moments with him still clinging stubbornly to your mind, so foreign to you in the state that you're in. Your heart is all too silent in this knowledge, hushed and hidden from the overwhelming affections that it is to love a child all your own, your body too tired to want such things, your mind too afraid to lose them all over again. It is not enough to simply recall the minutes you spent admiring him, cleaning from all the filth of birth, entirely too happy to feel his hummingbird heartbeat, feel his tiny breaths, to listen to his mews of protest. It is not enough to hear him breathing now, feel his warmth against your flank, and you are too terrified to ask for more. To look for him feels like it would be to lose him, and it is something that even now you flinch from, teeth grinding together in all of your anxiety.
Within the depths of your changeling heart, there is something else: a name, a boy with his liar's smile and broken promises, all of the anguish that it is was to love him and the way that it felt to leave him, knowing that he wanted you gone. As it was with her, and despite everything in you telling you otherwise if you would just allow it, keep your heart from being so stubborn, you are worried that you will not love this child the way you should, for all of the ways that his father has wronged you. Worry that, for all of your hurt, you will neglect him, that you will not be the mother that he deserves simply for being.
As you look to him, to that little cherub face, those eyes like sea-glass, searching and hungry, all you can see is him. Him, in the delicate lines of his youthful face, him in the way that those little wisps of lily-white hair curl, him in the way that he smiles as he looks to you, new and unafraid. Him, and it is alright. Your heart swells painfully at that smile, brows furrowing as you feel yourself reach for him, skin flinching as his warmth radiates against your own. From that first touch, you only crave more, kissing the bridge of his nose, his forehead, smiling at the two dark little nubs within the small expanse of white. He squirms beneath your touch, your loving gaze, and you can only shift your weight, move your tired body to better see him, to examine every inch of him and know him intimately, knowing that he is yours and only yours. For every moment spent admiring, touching him, breathing him, there is a distinct absence, a loneliness that gnaws ever so quietly on your heart; a rasping sound of doubt and sorrow just loud enough to be unable to shut it out, a face stapled to the back of your eyelids, a ghost’s touch along your skin.
It is only as your eyes open again, your vision blurred, that you recognize the burn within them, feel the wetness along your cheeks. You cannot help it as you laugh softly, weaving your neck around your child’s fragile little body, pulling him so close, needing him so. “It will be alright, my little heartling—we will be alright.” You do not know whether you are trying to comfort him or yourself more, though you are certain that he does not understand just what he lacks, all of the worry that sits like a weight against your chest, all of the things you fear you will not be able to give him. “I'm here,” you breathe against him, in to him, the warmth of your breath scattering across his skin as you smile a secret little smile. For all of your uncertainty, there will always be at least one thing that you can offer him: never have you loved anyone more. “and here is where I will stay.”
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fantasydesignstock | meihua-stock | landkeks-stock
anyone is free to post if they want, i just ask that etziel is allowed to post first :3
@Misael @Erebos
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
| Outcast |
| Colt :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: 1 ( FROSTFALL ) |
| kels |
In the quiet, I can only watch as the world around me is bled further of color. In the hours that I have waited, the expanse before me has only grown whiter as a strange substance falls from somewhere I cannot see. Her breathing is a constant comfort in this relative lull, where her touch is lacking, a distraction from the wailing of something, some monster that no doubt waits just beyond my sight. Its breath invades the space that we share from time to time, stirring her wild hair in to a brief flight of motion, much to my delight, washing its chill over my skin, much to my disfavor. The fear that it once held for me has passed with the time that I have spent watching, trying to understand and only tasting failure, certain that whatever it is that is causing it is asleep, just like the being lying next to me.
It is only now, as I listen closely, that I notice her breathing has changed. It is no longer the deep sweeps that it had been, and instead it is shallower, more frantic. I can feel my pulse quicken within my veins as she sparks back into consciousness, becomes a whirlwind of different emotions that I cannot hope to understand. As her head swings upwards I cannot help as I flinch away, hiding behind the mass of her lower body, a choking fear rising within me. It is moments until her wandering gaze finds me, coaxes what little bravery I possess into a timid smile. It is as she smiles back that I reach for her, forgetting the terror that clung to my heart not seconds ago. What is her touch, but safety? What is her voice, but comfort? It is this that I cling to, the meaning of her words lost on me though I grasp at the weight, the importance, that they hold for her; it is the familiarity of all of the things, the only things, that I have known (her voice, her heart, her breaths), and as she falls silent once more I cry out, not wanting to be lost within the stillness any longer.
I only want her nearer to me, to hear—to feel—the way her heart beats, only for me (and why shouldn’t it? She is all I want to know, all I want to need. How could I be anything else to her?). To be kept from the things I still do not understand waiting just beyond the darkness that we have shared. I do not want to leave here, do not want to face the howling that waits just there, to face the things that wait and their frigid breath, despite the restlessness that wakes within my heart, my bones, the feeling nestled deep within my gut to rise and leave the comfort zone I have created for myself. It is lucky, then, that she seems to be just as content as I to linger within the peacefulness that we have found.
etziel
HOW NOT TO WRITE A POST 101.
| 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 |
01-23-2016, 06:25 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-23-2016, 06:30 PM by Erebos.)
For once, he wandered without drive, without reason, without devout, zealous purpose. The Basin was not a world to be shadowed and veiled in his ardent fixture of hate and vengeance; it was stoked and refined by the cold, calculating winds and the formidable, beguiling fortress of rock and rubble. It was winter and delight, it was eerie and spellbinding, and it housed all of the glorious things he cherished (because he did – he adored and revered so many things and so many comrades – and only when they were taken from him did he truly ignite). It was graceful and bold, in the way that mountains never conformed, in the way that peaks never bowed, in the way that rapture and decadence could be found within each and every clearing; a motive to fight, an inspiration to devour.
So he stared, over the mass of glaciers and ice, a prince of audacity and boldness, a scion of rancor and immorality, devout and blessed by the frosty crowns nestled between rock and ruin. The day was endless, full of promise, full of daring, full of things boys aspired to be and harpoon on silly stories and drunken delusions – and today, he wasn’t sure what he craved, what he yearned, what he twisted through the foundations of his bones and sinew and muscle. Together, his sable shadow and himself, they rumbled and maneuvered, torn and tied amidst the snowy plain, pondering over ghosts and vigilance, haunting spells of failures and torments, flanking, soulless regards and the way they’d eventually collect all their demons and roast them into one blazing, towering inferno (and how grand it would be; to watch an enemy burst into flame). It would never bring the pieces of his, or another’s, life back, but it would be satisfying, gratifying, to have completed one more goal, to have become strong and unyielding, enduring and unholy, shaped and sculpted and designed by the nefarious sins drifting in and out of their illustrious wake. There would always be time for licentiousness, for trials, for tribulations, for chasing after the sun and becoming blinded by its splendor.
Orsino, poking along various bushes and caverns as they yielded to a state of nomadic inquiries, was the first to note something amiss. His clever, foxy little nose whipped upward, nostrils flaring, coaxing and ensnaring the wisps, the curls, of blood. His eyes narrowed, recognizing various scents, but there were too many blurring together to make sense of the situation – but the reverberation between kitsune and boy was too strong, too apparent, to be ignored or disregarded.
Erebos’ eyes widened, and a sheer state of panic clustered and cloistered his limbs, his figure, his body, and his mind; like a poison, like a sieve, veiling him in horrible connotations and contortions. Enna.
His movements were immediately set in motion – wild and savage, sinister and chaotic, nearly teetering on unhinged, unbalanced. He was too afraid of what he might find buried beneath snow and rubble (and the sickening memories of that little girl pressed in gold and blood were too much to bear, too much to repeat), but the questions were unwinding and obscene. Had something happened to her? And what was he to do if something had clipped, beaten, and bludgeoned her? Strike another chord of revenge, of requital, and renew the process all over again? Spend his lifetime annihilating foes, crying over fallen friends, becoming more and more entrenched in the twisted bedlam of menace and abominations? He wasn’t a healer, not like her, he couldn’t apply salve. He could only rip things apart, slowly, one by one, a methodical, Machiavellian beast starving for release – and he wasn’t sure if he handle one more of his companions dying, helpless, abandoned; always a second, a moment, too late.
The heinous actions, the drumming of wrath, the strung notes of apprehension combined him into an overwhelmed devil. Orsino was no better, simmering on the weight of hate boiling and brewing between them, eager for the fray. But when they appeared, when they approached, the cave harboring the Mender within, he was nearly afraid to go into the shadows – frightened of what lay beyond, if the last image of her embedded in his mind would be her swansong, and not the rich, mischievous strains they’d always managed to pluck.
The lad ducked his head beneath the apertures’ exposition, and his gaze, narrowed in speculation, in trepidation, caught her breathing form (and he nearly loosened a tangible, heartfelt sigh), and something else shifting. Orsino gave forth a muffled snort, a strangled hiss, as if he was too was shocked and surprised at what lay within the catacomb walls: a child nestled and slick and silver, newly born, precious and precocious.
There was a long bridge of silence. Erebos simply didn’t know what to say, what to do, or what to think. One moment he believed another friend had been perilously wounded and he would have to avenge them, and the next, he discovered a babe, clearly hers, eager and rustling amidst the last vestiges of the season. “Enna,” he started, and then his voice, usually so strong, usually so enduring, usually so charismatic and silly, barely dared to go on, scratching at the surface, clinging to ridiculousness. "I thought you were hurt." He tilted his head in various fractions and degrees, trying to sort out the puzzle, the hows and the whys and the whens, but struggled to get any of them out. Instead, he felt a prick against his chest and his head bow against the grain, a low granule of his voice echoing over the bounty, the joy, she must’ve felt. “Congratulations.”
Erebos clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
Tiamat the Ocean's Light Posts: 360
| Aurora Basin Lady atk: 8 | def: 10 | dam: 3 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: 6 years HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Nimue :: Common Orca Leviathan :: Boil
Reli |
It is wisps of musings that lead the ocean mare towards the Mender’s cave, dainty hooves drifting blissfully along wafting tendrils of daydreams and memories, leading her—almost unconsciously—closer to the small brown mare. It has been many months (too long) since she has seen her dear friend. Blood, fear, and violence cloud the last memories she has of their time together, images far too shaken by distress to ease her worry for much longer. The last she had seen had been a retreating figure, dissipating into the trees and away from that terrible disorder and hateful bloodshed.
The mare’s heart guides her now, encouraging her feet along the tender threads that drift over earth and snow, if only to see and feel that her friend has escaped the lingering pains of war. Tulip-shaped ears lean attentively forward, white eyes eventually resting from their quiet wandering to settle on that dark mouth, a shadowed haven from autumn’s frigid breath. She lifts her head, dark nostrils flaring to inhale the scents that drift outward, heightening her honest interest.
“Hello?” She inquires happily, curiously, after cloven hooves have carried her over rock and ice to the cavern’s dim, warm entrance. Peering inside, the ocean mare first sees the bright sapphire eyes of a stallion—a stranger to her, sadly, but one she has seen in glimpses around their mountain home. An amiable smile is offered, glittering with the promise of friendship, but she is distracted before she can introduce herself properly. She notices the figure of her friend, seemingly weary but well, but—that is not what seizes the unicorn’s attention with such delightful surprise.
A fluttering of movement, tucked at her side and staring with wide, innocent eyes that make her breast swell with joy. “Enna—you have a child! A son!” Tiamat exclaims happily, her voice laced with songlike laughter. Of all the possibilities that she had dared to assume, this is certainly what she hadn’t expected to find. How wonderful it is!
Venturing further into the cave, the ocean mare reaches out slowly to the newborn, his sweet milky scent tickling her nostrils. “He’s beautiful,” looking up to the antlered mare, she smiles broadly, before her healer’s heart calls her to action. “Do you need anything? Water? I have herbs—” and she arches her neck to sift through the sprigs weaved in her hair. It is obvious that the Mender is more than capable of taking care of herself, but the blue mare cannot help but offer her friend aid.
notes; ;-; <333
“Speech.”
we run like a river runs to the sea
please tag Tia in all replies!
magic & force are permitted.
| Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 HH :: 7 years HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Lazarus :: Melanistic Lion :: None
ShadowMare |
02-02-2016, 12:16 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-02-2016, 12:16 AM by Misael.)
 I am a wild man
& i dont need to explain myself to the likes of you
It was no perfect day, it was no perfect life, but he was content in himself. Worries were not cast upon his horned head, his thoughts weren't clouded, resting in a clear ease. It was in these days that he wondered, let the land speak to him, while he traveled across it's isles, soaking in all that it had to offer. He travels with purpose today though, for time had passed much too quickly and the chromed did not like to leave unfinished business. To call it that felt so raw and wrong, but the beast could not think of any other way to describe it. For they were not friends, not lovers, not anything but enemies(well at least he was to her) and the horned had grown calloused by such an idea. He felt so much older now, his eyes holding a mature golden glint now, the vibrancies of childhood escaping him. How naive he was to say he loved her, when he knew now that what he had for Anzanie was love, perhaps not the one that is so heavily desired, but it was a kind of family admiration and care that Miseal must think was love. What he had for Enna...well it was possession, jealously wasn't love, that he knew.
Although he wouldn't admit it, it was love. He just didn't know He had spent so much time convincing himself that it wasn't, for love was to be reciprocated, and it was such a cold, awful feeling when her eyes glowed with the hate she had for him, that he told himself that it wasn't love. The golden couldn't let his heart be injured anymore, a thick layer had built over the tenderness that Enna saw, but it was maturity that too layered in thick cords. He did not march into the north angry, nor was it with a pitful saddness, or a cockyness, but rather with a neutral attitude. He could not deny the pain of their past, but he had moved on(at least he thinks so) and wanted to check up on the dainty mare of brown.
A viel spreads over his skin as Miseal becomes no longer there, but entirely still there. His magic hid him away from any of those he did not wish to converse with as he picked his way to the aurora basin. Plus, it wasn't necessarily a day he felt like he wanted to deal with a bunch of unicorns with their horns stuck up their frozen assholes. The thought of them made him cringe, but his thoughts were quite quickly stopped as the taints of blood, of horses, of her occupy every quarter of his mind. The maturity slips away as he galloped with a wild urgency to her side, his stripes still hidden with the colors of the surroundings. It is too quickly that he reaches her and realizes that Enna was no longer his to check on, to care about, to love, for so many others had already taken his place. His golds are set in some sort of stage that wasn't quite shock, but rather some form of hurt, surprise, but expectancy. He looks away from her, not bearing to be able to look at her, look at what she and that brindled asshat had created. His body is stiffened at the sight of the others gathered around her, particularly at black stallion that was present.
She is not yours Miseal
I am not done fighting
He realizes, his shoulders tightening with the frustration of his heart. In seconds, in silence, she had sliced through his barrier, and Miseal had gotten no better. He wasn't the man he came here hoping he would show her he was. There were words said that hopelessly fell to the ground, a shield of concentrated, distantness surrounding him as he merely stood there and stared. Hows, whys, whens, whats all pecked and ripped at his skin, taunting him as he peered upon the result of his mistakes.
You should not have come
But I did.
Miseal chooses to believe that his coming here was no mistake, no coincidence, but rather some sort of destiny, opportunity. He steps closer then, body tall, proud, but still hidden as he knows that she doesn't want him here, his heart torn between letting go and loving harder. He did not realize, but as he reached down to touch the creation beside her(he could not even in his jealously, hate the child) wanting only to just touch, to care, for something, for anything that was a part of Enna, that his magic flickered and the world saw all that he was. His eyes are lined with a tender, beautiful pain, the beauty of her, the beauty of her child, the pain of knowing that he had to let go, had to withdrawal, had to realize that not all beasts are going to reveal to something that the belle in brown would want, that not all beasts got a beauty. He attempts to nuzzle the young colt, hoping that he would grow up to be strong, and everything that he wasn't. He does not decide to talk to Enna, for perhaps he had only been destined here for goodbye, and his heart clenched at such a thought. Goodbyes were too permeant, too powerful.
You have to let her go
Okay.
OCC: at no point in time does Miseal know he can be seen after he is revealed & ew
words words words
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| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None
kels |
02-15-2016, 05:30 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-15-2016, 05:33 AM by Enna.)
like punching in a dream, breathing life into a nightmare|
“Erebos,” Somewhere among the mess that you are there is a smile that you smile only for him as he pulls you from your solemn thoughts, endless what ifs and buts and not-good-enoughs. He hesitates, and your smile (along with a little prick of embarrassment, of shyness) grows infinitely, finding some sense of comfort in the way that, for once, he seems just as unsure as you. Your eyes shift to your child as you feel him move against you, reach to nuzzle his little cheek, his eyes wide and unmoving from the frame of the prince lingering on the edge of everything he knows—and how odd it must be, you think, to see these things for the very first time, to be so new, so very (unknowingly) vulnerable. ‘I thought you were hurt.’
It is only a laugh that he is met with as you turn your head, eyes narrowing mischievously as they find his gaze again. You do not know how to accept his concern, how to accept the reasons why he may have thought so, may have assumed the worst so easily. And so you don’t, rolling your eyes in an attempt to make yourself, and more importantly, him, believe that it does not faze you, does not beg a thousand and one questions. “Wishful thinking?” Another smile, despite the twisting in your heart, a small shake of your head at the thought of what you would have done should it have been you that had smelled the blood, the thought of that night when you had found him and all of his strength had failed—the feeling of knowing something was wrong but not what. It sobers you quickly, drags the smile in to a thin line as your face softens, trying your best to comfort him.
“I can take care of myself, you know. You don’t need to worry.” The silence that finds the two of you, then, it quickly turns uncomfortable, awkward, and you shift beneath his gaze, your own falling from his face to his neck, the tendrils of his dark, dark hair, tangled in places with small petals of snow, and finally to the glint of his cloven hooves. You do not remember the last time (had there been any time?) there had been such stillness between the two of you, his stories and antics provoking too much to allow for it, and your tongue dances behind your lips impatiently, your lack of anything to say in the absence of his witticisms quickly growing frustrating until—finally—‘congratulations.’ It is not what you had expected, and though you look to him once more, smiling briefly, your attention flickers to the reason of the word, trying to ignore the emptiness, trying to ignore that face still stapled to the back of your eyelids. “Thank you.”
Thank you, and only thank you, because the sheltered, double-edged happiness that it is to have a breathing child, one that is so nearly perfection in all the ways that he possibly could be (gluttonously, perhaps, but it is all too much for you to take, to understand) is not enough. It is not enough to silence all the ways that him not being here, not being yours, make you feel, make you bleed. It is the sound of another that pulls you from your brooding, your head twisting curiously to peek around Erebos, only to hear a familiar voice, see yet another familiar face. She is a welcomed distraction, a needed comfort, and you smile widely as she begins to settle. “Oh, Tia,” the words are an elated gush, unintentionally interrupting the possible greeting that she had intended for Erebos. You cannot recall the last time you had seen her (and maybe that is for the best, the memories too tender), your seclusion reaching beyond days, months, though the ache is never far from your thoughts, never entirely shut out.
You did not—do not—want to burden them, these two that have found you, the girl made of stardust, with such trivial little things, when time has moved on and so should you, when you know that they will not, could not understand (and what would you tell them even if they tried? That you wish for things to be different, for the chance to be astonishingly selfish—more than you have been—without the hassle of guilt, to leave your responsibilities, this child pressed against you so close, as easily as he had, to forget that any of it ever happened? To forget, to forget, to forget—), when they undoubtedly have heartaches and troubles of their own, heartaches and troubles that you have already so selfishly left them with, when you do not deserve to be consoled for all the wrongs that you have done.
Before you can even ask her about herself, all of the things that you (may not) have missed, undeniable excitement creeps suddenly along her feminine features, and you cannot deny the swell of pride that laces itself within your heart, too enraptured with her excitement to remember anything else. As she reaches forwards, the boy flinches back, only seconds passing before he leans in to her touch with his tiny muzzle, eyes searching her face with genuine curiosity. Even when she pulls from him, he watches her closely, fixated on the seaweed and shells braided within her hair, the glowing trinkets around her neck. She looks to you and again you squirm underneath all of their focus, forcing a smile in response to her praise. “He … he takes after his father. More than he does me, at least.”
It is mumbled out of a feeling of necessity, the churning in your stomach nearly causing you to grimace, the tiny fraction of comfort that you had managed to find in her presence diminishing quickly. ‘Do you need anything? Water? I have herbs—’ You can only smile as she turns her head to go through the assortment of plants within the locks of her long hair, reminding you of why you had liked her in the first place, all the ways she is too sweet for her own good. You purse your lips, inhaling to respond to her question when a cry from your child that you turn from her, watching with a furrowed brow as he moves from something, wiggling against you desperately. At first you only brush against him, trying to offer comfort where seemingly little can be found, worried eyes glancing to Tia only briefly before a foreign movement catches your attention.
As his face begins to take shape out of nothing, the blood from yours turns cold, for a moment your breath caught in your throat as if you forgot everything except that he is here, mere inches from your son’s face. “You.“ It is but a breath, dangerous in its quietness, woven with threat, built upon a ferocity that is entirely too familiar to you, entirely too familiar because he had been the one to ignite it, the day he had mutilated her corpse. “Out.”
“Get. Out.” It is without any further hesitation that you scramble clumsily to find your footing, your exhausted body responding to some buried instinct faster than your tired mind can even comprehend the motions. It is in this same desperate haze that you find yourself lunging for the man’s shoulder with bared teeth, intent on harm, mutilation, anything, anything to prove to him that your words had not been hollow, the memory of your antlers pressed so dangerously close to his throat and the why only serving to add solidity to your absolution. Once, maybe, it would have weakened you, broken the anger that so clearly clouds your mind now, shown you just how senseless, how brash, how wrong and against everything you have believed in so fervently, causing harm like this is. But now? Now it only drives you as you tuck your head to your chest, antlers aiming up and forwards to plunge in to the muscled flesh of his neck before your body follows the momentum, the width of your chest seeking to barrel in to the expanse of his, hoping to knock him off balance, away, anything, anything but staying so terribly close to the fragile boy huddled helplessly against the stone of the cavern floor.
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fantasydesignstock | meihua-stock | landkeks-stock
@Erebos @Tiamat @Misael
don't think i'll be posting etz to this thread again, ive taken long enough with this reply.<3
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
| 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 was utterly useless, standing there amongst the cave and cobwebs, struggling to decipher the meaning of everything within. The unknown twisted and gnarled, convoluting and contorting his thoughts into broken pieces and ire, unspoken exasperation, and boyish, silly frustrations. Her words bounded and ricocheted along the walls, playing off his concerns, his worries, his fears, as if nothing mattered, as if she were utterly incapable of being marked, wounded, and destroyed. The boy’s ears twisted and one pinned along his skull; irritated that he was being written off again, that he was nothing, no one, and his sentiments had little bearing. He’d seen too much to know, to understand, that no soul was unassailable. Why shouldn’t he worry about her, just as he’d always done with his friends, with those he cared for? A roll of indignation sparked from his lips, pierced by her thin smile (like this was one more game, one more essence of mischief – but even the little demon knew better), rolling along the catacomb walls. “Why would I want to see you hurt?” He narrowed his gaze, shuttered those wild, untamed, savage hints of blue, looking away from mare to son, attempting to dislodge the vicious shock of anger unwinding through him. The tiny child didn’t deserve the wrath or ire flicking off the infidel’s mercurial form – none of them did, really. But he was so lost, so indignant, so annoyed by the entire situation – the way she believed herself invulnerable, the way she thought naught of his trepidation, that his words sputtered in a burst cluster of secrets and covert designs. “I’m tired of seeing my friends in pain,” he spoke, head lowered, eyes sanctioned to the floor, to the stone, wishing he could somehow melt into it, be swallowed up by the earth. He might have said more, he might have proclaimed naught, but another approached.
He didn’t know the blue femme with her swinging, singsong shells and her elegant smile, and he shifted out of her way, sheepish and stupid, billowing into an open corner where he could survey, think, and try to formulate something beyond the weight of his discontent. The lad was one more piece of the woodwork and adornments; an ornament of ridiculousness tethered to the walls. We shouldn’t have come he prospered to Orsino, allowing the heady barbs of regret to pour through their connection, but the fox only narrowed his stare and shook his head, shocked at the level of foolishness his bonded could emote. But instead of leaving, instead of departing, he listened to their quiet words, to the trickling of notions and phrases (he takes after his father), glancing off into the landscape of snowy hillsides and ignoring the gnawing in his gut; clenching his jaw, mauling down ivories and enamel.
A shift of movement caught his eye; foreign, unknown, strangely appearing from thin air. His own motions are abrupt and swift, quick and enhanced by the dangerous, treacherous way in which Enna’s syllables struck. Another beast, only announcing his presence by silence (how dare he, the soldier thought, tread where he’s unwanted), wafted and wandered, blowing and billowing a caress towards the child. He knew nothing (an obvious pattern in today’s progression) about the other stag, about the rhyme or reason he was here (was he the sire?), but Enna’s keen, blunt chords were enough to regard the stranger as an opponent, as an enemy, as a threat.
I can take care of myself, she’d said, but Erebos ignored it this time.
He maneuvered to her side, in front of the boy, stationing himself as sentinel and blackguard, eerily calm, strangely composed, treacherously, dangerously close to the foreigner. The prince thought naught of the height, age, and weight differences, prospering only the lingering, chaotic potency of his notions, of his sentiments, of his Mephistophelean designs. “Leave,” he echoed, rapacious and belligerent, abhorrent and vile, rankling the coils of his hatred, of his wrath, eager to proffer his frustrations and anger on someone (anyone, anything). He offered his knife, his sword, his horn, and he extended the note of his incantations – it would take nothing, no time at all, to bring them to fruition.
Erebos clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
| Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 HH :: 7 years HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Lazarus :: Melanistic Lion :: None
ShadowMare |
03-06-2016, 07:29 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-06-2016, 07:52 PM by Misael.)
I am a wild man
& i dont need to explain myself to the likes of you
He had not realized it, but his magic had slipped away. The man's head slowly rises from the foal, and he gives the cream creature a soft, reassuring smile, he already knew that when his goldens had shifted away from the innocence at his feet, that he was going to peer into pale anger. He is not wrong as Enna's expression is that of venom, of hate, and he is surprised and not at the same time. A woman that had once so tenderly looked at him, now looked at him with so much disgust it was almost degrading. But, that almost was the difference between Miseal sulking away and Miseal standing his ground. Never had he ever, touched Enna, never would he, but he also had never stood his ground, not in the eyes of the broken Enna. He had always made excuses for her actions, had always placed the blame on himself, things had changed; and so had he. He would take this no longer. Yes, she had been broken, shattered even, but so had he, so had others. Everyone cracked, everyone had that moment. Hers was no different. This was the last thing he would do for Enna, and it was to show her to get. the. fuck. over. it.
Or so he thought he would.
She lunges at him then, how foolish. She had an anger so blinding that she had forget to open her eyes and look. She had forgotten the height, the strength, the power that ran hot in his veins now. She was nothing to him. A dark smirk encompasses his towering, looming mass. Their love hate was monstrous. It was so full of regret, of guilt, of pain, that it twisted and clawed it's way into your skin until your blood ran cold, until the light in your eyes was lethal. Their hate was monstrous, and it made monsters out of both of them. He let his low, ravenous, chuckle out in the night as he watches with pleasure, as she surges to him with all of her nothingness.
You loved her once.
Not anymore. He thinks, as her tines cause warmth to seep down his chest. He does not care for the pain, does not even register the blood that stained his coat and dripped onto the ground and his golden hooves. It wasn't the entrance of her horns that hurt, it wasn't even the blood on his chest that hurt, it was the separation that killed. She backed away then, and a groan released from his breath as the blood no longer seeped but poured, his golden's full of pain, of hurt, of disbelief. He kept his gaze locked with hers as the black stag runs to be the prince in shining, onyx armor. The beast lets the prince back him away, but it was only because he let him. This little prince does not understand the monster that lay brooding under his thick, striped skin. He allows the boy a chance, for he is only acting out of protection and Miseal understands this, the pain of Enna's horns finally blooming in his head.
She is not worth all this pain.
Miseal blinks at the man's expressions, really caring quite less as his mind is only on the stinging, throbbing, burning pain in his chest(was it her horns or his heart?) Miseal focuses then, glaring at the boy with all of his blazing might, seeing right through the rage in prince's orbs, "You better watch out boy, for not all men in this world know restraint. I will not fight a mere child, you should take your decisions into much more consideration, or you'll end up far worse then hurt." He said, not laying a single hoof on the boy, despite the raging desire to destroy.
It was then that Miseal glances at Enna, his face set in soft, kind, wise lines. He looked so much older then, the journey of heartbreak, of fatherhood, turning a boy man. Perhaps the pure pain that haunted him was not hidden by his facade, but he offers a small smile, "Goodbye my dear, my hate, love" He whispers then, fading away from their sight until only the puddle of his blood lay crimson in the oh so black and white world.
He steps in that puddle while invisible, let's the blood mold around his hooves until he was sure the perfect print would be crafted. He was so close, so close to placing that bloodied print on the boy, but he would not allow him to again be the soiler of innocence. So with a fuzzy, pained mind, he walks away, the tracks of crimson hooves and drippings of blood the last of his regrets as he bleeds them out on the ground of the icy fortress, leaving that maiden that would forever be memorized as nothing but a mistake.
Goodbye, my beauitful mistake.
OCC: no words.
words words words
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