the Rift


[PRIVATE] the faces of trouble --

Kid Posts: 122
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Colt :: Equine :: 15hh :: 3 years HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE
dark
#1
"I'll let them know what bad means."
I earned myself a good beating last time I ran away, leaving me with a severe bite against my withers, crusted blood caking over the wound. It was much harsher than the nick on my cheek, this one would be a more apparent scar, something that both Mother and I would have to look upon and live with. I didn't mind that it hurt, I had known the seriousness of my punishment when I'd left her side, Sabre and I were equally knowledgeable of what we would have to face upon returning to Mother, guilty but elated at the exhilaration of running so freely. She strictly scolded us, and I kept a stoic expression throughout, feeling the weight of mother's disappointment weighing me down. 

Today I abandoned her and Sabre with hesitance, already feeling the rabid teeth that would meet my skin when I come crawling back to Mother. She wouldn't be happy that I'd gotten away, and I only had a short time before she took notice of my absence and hunted me down. I don't think Sabre noticed either, and that natural need to protect my sibling is what drove me to try and get away when  she wasn't looking. I didn't want her getting punished by Mother, not when I was the one who led her astray, as it happened last time too. This time around I didn't want her to follow me, for that reason but also because I wanted to explore alone, to know what silence was like while I wandered alone. 

Perhaps it hadn't been my best decision, as I stumble upon a sandy flat, water pooling in various places to create reflective surfaces all along the coast. Cotton candy pools widen, two curious ears springing forward as I see the horizon meld into the faded blue of the sky, no line differentiating earth from sky. My steps are light, cautious around the flat puddles that have settled in multitudes of places, a curious set up for the land. There's no shelter, no trees nor grass for nutrition or shade, an open expanse that seems to just go on and on until it collides with the sky. 

I step into one of the pools, hoof creating a ripple before the water settles back around the ivory streaked appendage. I watch closely in the way the ripples grow outwards, expanding from my hoof until crashing with the edges of the small puddle or dissipating from lack of power. This exciting new discovery leads me to lift my hoof again, bringing it down and watching droplets scatter, this time making the ripples bigger and faster, abruptly ending at the edge where earth meets water. This appealing reaction from the water is enough to keep me entertained, watching my reflection distort with each stomp and shake of my foot, I was kept busy with watching the way it moved. 

"Talk."
kid
the boy bandit king
image credits


@Zhu

smitty the swift Posts: 22
Administrator
Mare :: Other :: 1 :: 1
#2
unarchived per request

Zhu Posts: 23
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 6
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 16'3 :: 3yrs HP: 61.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Zuno
#3
Nightmares and violent shapes
the state of dreaming
has left me numb
The world hurts. His eyes weep tears in a pitiful fashion as his vision slowly fades away, his magic painting him constant pictures of nothing. Each shrill cry of it is blown out into the vast emptiness and bring back the same old thing, his legs moving at full speed when his voice is starting to burn out, accepting that leaving without Hobgoblin was a bad idea. He’d left the Rougarou behind some ways back. Watching him eat and kill became a boring, repetitive thing, and the boy no longer wanted to watch things die. It wasn’t that he was upset by death, by all means he couldn’t care if something died or not, watching his mother work on things and learning rather early on that all things die, prematurely or past their time, but it was the constant sight of seeing Hobgoblin do the same things that made him lose interest.
Hunting wasn’t exactly his forte, nor was eating dead things.
But now in a world that he can’t tell is dark or light, moon eyes closed so tightly shut that he feels they’ll never open up again. What tears that were on his face have now dried, leaving behind thin marks of messy hair against his cheeks.
There isn’t anything worse than this.
He wants his mom, he wants Hobgoblin, even Amara, of all the people in the world, but the world out here feels so vast, so dead and lifeless when he releases noises for his sight, only to receive nothing. His young chest is heaving. Air seems to bolt from his lungs as the feeling of a panic attack slowly etches it’s way into his body.
I shouldn’t have left Ma.
MA!!!”
The silence is getting worse, desperately trying to open his eyes now, feeling sunlight try to creep back into his eyes, the tears returning as if they’re always meant to be there. He wants the shade, he wants the night, he wants anything other than this god forsaken place.
There is, in the mess of lights and blurs that his eyes bring him, something out there. It’s too far to make out completely, but there’s the slightest hints of movement, and without knowledge that mirages exist, he releases out an attempted cacophony, watching as a figure does build out of it.
It strikes a small hint of hope in him, making a series of clicks now, listening in as his brain and ears work together to build the blurred figure into another foal. A foal who might be able to see in this cursed hell.
“H-h-hey!” He checks for any sort of acknowledgement that he can make out, the twisting of ears, a turn of a head, maybe them walking towards him.
Small, cloven hooves move along the ground with slowly increasing space, continuously searching for their attention. His companion in the wasteland seems caught up in other things that aren’t as important. Ripples bounce up in the images produced, dancing as the colt’s hoof brings on the effects.
“What are you doing?”


"Talk."
zhu


@Kid

Kid Posts: 122
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Colt :: Equine :: 15hh :: 3 years HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE
dark
#4
"I'll let them know what bad means."
It was the scream I heard first, startling me from my splashing in the ripples. I straighten myself, ears pricking forward as I make out distant blurred shapes against the background that escape my vision. A petite black blob shuffles around— the source of the noise. Bubblegum eyes struggle to focus on the shape headed towards me, gradually edging into my field of view with each painfully hesitant step. There, against the blues and greens and greys, against the yellows and pinks and all those other blurry fucking colours— is him

A boy darker than night, with a bi-coloured tail and cloven hooves, an intoxicating presence and ivory kisses upon his brow— he intrigues me. He is thick and pretty, weaving my gut into a thundering disaster, a pit of carnivorous confusion. Had I met Volterra I would have known he wore the same shade of black as he, and that we shared blood. Fortunately, my cotton candy eyes have never laid upon the second half that had a hand in my creation— and my obliviousness to my connection with this child lives on. This family resemblance does not cross my mind, not the monochrome palette, the telltale black hide, not even the skeletal etchings that ran down his spine. He was simply there, squinting at me with crusted trails racing down his cheeks— he had been crying. 

I furrow my brows, listening to his stutter and falter on his words. He was roughly my age, standing only a few inches taller than me. As the details started to become clear I took notice that our similarities in build were astounding. Even in our adolescence we shared similar body types, although already my hind was swelling with muscle— a signature courtesy of Mother's blood, and his legs grew thicker than mine. I perk up, noticing the way the boy's eyes squinted and twitched— like they were irritated by something. "Hey." I called back, traversing over the puddles I'd just brought destruction and ruin to only moments ago to get closer to him. 

I glance around at the flat lands, at the water that so gingerly kisses the swelling clouds and sun bleached sky. I turn back to the boy, then down at my hooves. I am blind to the knowledge of our future— how important we shall become to one another— instead concerning myself with the salty sea water clinging to my coat and the sweat beading along my neck. "I was uh— playing in puddles." Suddenly I felt less god-like— less of a king and more of a bumbling idiot. I'd been playing in puddles. Kings don't play in puddles, kings are serious and threatening, and although I'm sure the pools were quaking before me, they were not the subjects I desired. 

"What are you doing? And why were you crying?" I looked at the kid (haha, fuck you Mother) and lifted a brow. I never cried— perhaps because Mother had beaten into me that crying was a dangerous tactic, that if I chose to cry I sealed my fate and was guaranteed a fierce lashing. I notice the misty appearance of his silver eyes (so enchanting), frowning. I wanted to know why he cried, why such a strong emotional response had taken hold of him at this time when he was free. I noted no adults (or should I say no vaguely horse shaped blurs) around us, meaning he'd come alone. I held a grin in, the exciting thrill of being unsupervised with another child bringing a jittery feeling to my skin, prickling with anticipation at the disasters we could bring with us. 

"Talk."
kid
the boy king
image credits


@Zhu

made by reli

tag me in everything

Zhu Posts: 23
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 6
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 16'3 :: 3yrs HP: 61.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Zuno
#5
Nightmares and violent shapes
the state of dreaming
has left me numb
Embarrassment should have struck him by now, swinging across his tear-streaked cheeks and slamming the reminder into his brain that strong displays of emotions are a sign of weakness and submission, that he is rolling over to bare his belly to a stranger not much different from him. But he cannot see that, because the tears are clotting in his eyelashes, threaded from the night, holding back the moons he holds in his skull through dark storm clouds that welcoming empty their weights. For all that he cares, all the more noise that the kid(lol) puts out is enough to show him that he is there, ears jerking into position to listen to everything he makes.
On occasion, he releases his own calls, nothing more than low clicks that build and destruct his company within a matter of a few seconds. There are no horns. There are no wings. He cannot see that his brother is wearing their father’s face, and sees him nothing more than a soul encased in a body.
Just like his mother, just like Hobgoblin was shown him through physical brutalities and mindless slaughter that nothing is holy, and that life is a simply a thing that comes and goes. If they were to kill, he wouldn’t care.
The mention of puddles makes him curious, and then suddenly, hopeful. He could wash the salt and the tears from his face and hide his curse, and as he dips towards it, drawing his cloven hooves along the surface as if he was diving the surgeon’s scalpel into a chest cavity, relinquishing in the feeling of cool, wet water that reminds of him home, he finds that it is salty. No use to his eyes nor his stains.
The desert is a curse.
A question still hangs in the air, but in his ears, it’s that same old sound, gibberish mixed in with actual words. Sikeax is not here to rescue him, and Hobgoblin is not there to aid in any way possible. He is out on his own, in a real world situation where either has to ball up and become the fallen with those who he will walk over in his near future.
Warlords and sons of warlords, especially the first-borns of a grand warlord of a line of other greats behind him on both sides, the ones who inherit the throne and power, should not quiver and break beneath their challenges. Instead, he forces himself to prosper, to shove his growing body into a challenging position that will (hopefully)pay off.
He is not weak, nor will he ever be, whether it be of battle wounds that he will proudly sport and continue to sport as they become scars, the deafening of his baby ears, the speech he cannot form correctly, or the cough that rattles his rib cage til all of his ribs threaten to break.
Swallowing, he finds himself with a hardened throat and pained. He swallows that too.
“My e-e-zz… The sound of the final syllable drags out across his jagged teeth and searches for correction, words that make sense to him but maybe not this one. He’ll get his point across in his own way, regardless of him.
“Dragon.”
All the time that they have practiced pronouncing his homeland’s name has paid off. The words come out with the grace of a porcelain-legged ballerina, who after time after time has broken them and glued them back together out of persistence.
His eyes, they burn like Dragons are within them. A turn of a black, velvet muzzle swung towards where he believes the Sun is at is further testament to what he is trying to say.
He doesn’t care to crack their now tightly shut shutters to look for a physical reaction, waiting with ears pressed forward so that his stranger will make a noise that he can use as a crutch until they feel as if they will work correctly again.



"Talk."
zhu


@Kid

Kid Posts: 122
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Colt :: Equine :: 15hh :: 3 years HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE
dark
#6
"I'll let them know what bad means."
And the boy is there, still. I half expected him to drift away from me, to swing from my eyes and waltz into the vast coloured blur of the world beyond us— but he remains. He does not drift away from me out of disinterest or disgust, standing dutifully before me.

I hadn't met any likable boys in my age range, and that golden boy in the north was not likable. He was an annoying idiot who did not understand the fate to which he was destined by being born— to live beneath me as a less than sufficient peasant I would never know the name of. Perhaps he would become even less than that because of how foolishly he spoke out of turn, and how easily he spoke up in that innocent sing song voice that most children do. It was the charm of purity that I despised, the newly birthed shroud of innocence each child was given.

But not I, for I tore that shroud long before it could grace my shoulders. I burned it with the flames of rebellion, dancing along the imaginary fabric and consuming the tainted weaving, banishing it to a place that it could not haunt me for my abandonment of it.

I would think that as good— the boy standing there so calmly, so patiently considering that all my subjects should await commands from the heir— but seeing this boy as anything less than I seemed wrong. He didn't fit within the box of subject, and he was certainly no peasant even though he should be below me, just as everyone else is. The idea of him being less than me compelled me to wrinkle my nose, to toss my head and rethink the way in which I perceive the onyx kid He seems beyond the rankings of any sort of subject, draped in an elegance I cannot place my finger on (Nymeria), accented in something greater— stronger (Volterra). But there is something more, a gentleness and distance that I have not seen before (his mother).

He is a warlord, a future king that I could accept at my side. In time I will come to learn what these feelings are (why can't I stop looking at his face?), for now I'll claim that I've simply met someone who is equal to me, who I cannot look down upon. This unexplainable frustration worms its way beneath my skin as I look him over for what feels like the hundredth time (it probably is).

There's a familiarity to his features that I cannot discern, something that reminds me of me (Volterra and Nymeria, again). It's a family resemblance that sails over my head, passing me by as I trace over the definition of his body, over his thicker legs and blacked coat. I want to keep looking at him because I feel that if I don't he might slip away, that he'll vanish completely from this plane of existence and never be seen by my eyes again. It's an irrational fear, especially for a child raised strictly on the idea that fear means you are weak. But even so, it keeps me from looking away from him towards the world beyond, keeping my focused solely on him.

I watch him meticulously, noting each movement as he carefully breaks the surface of a nearby puddle with a split hoof. He's feeling out the earth beneath him, edging closer with his eyes clamped shut. His eyes, what was wrong with them? Was he afraid of seeing me (I'm not ugly, am I?), are his eyes a weird colour? I'm sure if he saw the colour of mine he would feel better, considering the fact that my eyes are the colour of blooming spring flowers (not very intimidating—yet). "Why do you have your eyes closed?"

"And that's salty water." I inform him, looking at him with a raised brow as he seems to realize that indeed that water was not drinkable by any means, nor would it cleanse his face of his tears. Speaking of, I was still very curious as to why he'd been crying, but I thought that asking such would be a rude thing to ask of someone I'd only just met (I didn't even know his name).

He speaks, broken fragments of what could have been the sullen syllables of a child— my mind works to carefully decipher his words. It plays them on repeat, whirring and clicking as the pieces slide into place. "Your eyes?" I question, not know whether that was an answer to one of my previous questions or whether he simply decided to state that he had them. Maybe they were bothering him? It's as he speaks that I spy subtly jagged teeth, hidden behind full black lips and caging a pink tongue. More questions rise to my throat, but I keep them down out of respect for the possibly overwhelming boy.

Dragon, he says. "What about them?" I ask, eyes guided to the vague location of the sun, muzzle gesturing for me to look in that direction. As I do, I try to pick apart what it all means, but I unfortunately continue to draw blanks as I stare into the smudged distance, barely able to make out the horizon and where it begins.  

"Talk."
kid
the boy bandit king
image credits

@Zhu

made by reli

tag me in everything


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