the Rift

hang hallowed halos [Gull Challenge]

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

Death and damnation called to him, ferocious and vehement. It seethed and scorched, smoldered and brewed, until his soul, his skull, his mind, was naught more than a contemptuous canvas; his blade was its brush, blood was its paint, scorn was its scenery.
Because someone had dared to take from his herd.
If it was villainy, if it was vengeance, if it was the rancorous, savage taste of defeat the pilferer sought, he’d earned it. Had he not heard the stories? Did he know nothing of the bestial kingdom, of the chilling sovereign? How many times had they combatted their enemies? How many times had they torn the world apart? Yet he wove audacity, drove into the core of their empire, and stole from one of the Reaper’s own?
The thought of bludgeoning, of murdering, of massacring, of reveling in the rapacious elegance of violence, beckoned him away from the icy, chilling walls. He searched and spun, he chased and tore, he mauled and carved and sculpted his way through rocky passages and Orangemoon landscapes, following and tracing the corridors where the thief had gone.
Requital had reared its fierce head, and embedded itself within the dark Lord’s undulating frame, and it was burning, churning, beautiful conflagration of contempt, malice, and menace. It pulsed through his figure and pervaded through his core, an illustrious feast of fervency, might, and destruction, all incensed, all kindled, for one being.
He remembered the Pegasus from before: rampaging for Ode, ignoring the demons and gods, aching for a chance to maim his nephew. The Reaper hadn’t been able to land an attack – but today, today he would.
He’d mutilate him. He’d dismember him. He’d rip his flesh from his inept, feathered little hide and toss it into the sea. He’d make the gliding fool remember the ways of the Basin: the dangerous, treacherous methods of their world, the decadent supremacy, the licentious dominance. Gull had poked the wrong bears and beasts.
And if he tried again, the result would be the same.
Deimos followed the faint scent until dawn, when he reached the dotting of islands and the rush of water, narrowing his eyes, searching for his intended victim. The climate wasn’t searing in the autumn sheen, but still an acidic difference from his frosty home (would that bode ill, or simply ensure he burned even more?). He might have marched down into the jungle contortions or steep mountains, on the hunt, on the prowl, had the infidel’s stare not pinpointed on a certain painted figure.
Time to die.
A predator, a wolfish, minatory cretin, he slinked and slithered through sand and shoal, eager for the fray, ardent for slaughter. Callous and restless, desolate and terrible, he concocted a savoring layer of barbarity through his lungs, felt it smolder against his throat and ripple through his jaws, until he relinquished one giant ball of fire as he came closer and closer, reeling with depravity and deadly, ethereal wrath. The blast was aimed purely for the right side of the Pegasus, for his hide, for his flesh, for mutiny and sedition.
Only after, reeling in nefarious hate, in primordial lethality, ire, primal and arcane, did he drum the reason for his appearance, for his fiery siege. “You have something of the Basin’s. We want it back.”

[Challenge for Mortuus Nox’s wolf hide.
1/4. 551 words.
Setting: Riptide Isles, Orangemoon, morning, along the shoreline.
OOC: Deimos hunts for Gull. Sees him on the shoreline, and attempts to hit the right side of him with a blast of his fire magic. Announces his intentions.]



Gull Posts: 120
Absent Abyss atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16 hh :: 9 (Tallsun) HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Splat :: Royal Zephyr :: Phoenix Shady
underneath it all, we're just savages

Dawn finds him awake, but that is no surprise. It has been the same for a matter of weeks now. As the sun climbs into the sky, Gull paces below. Though it is early enough for his breath to come in silver clouds against the cool Orangemoon air, a light sweat coats his body, and a hint of steam rises from his coat. The Tallsun flies have long vanished, but his tail lashes and his hooves strike the beach heavily, betraying the agitation that bubbles within.

Why? It seems to echo in his mind with every step, to escape his flaring nostrils with every ragged exhale. He pivots, scattering sand in his wake and scaring the gulls that doze nearby. Why? Why had she saved him?  Blue eyes stare ahead, but as always, he only finds Tiamat’s face, a maddeningly gentle expression etched on the features of a killer. She opens her mouth to speak, but he will not let her. Ears pinned, he wheels again, destroying the illusion. She has done enough damage.
Wouldn’t it have been enough to kill him?  he wonders. Wouldn’t it have been enough to walk away, to leave him to die as Gaucho had?  He had expected as much when she had found him. He would have done it for her. That was the order of things! But instead she had saved him—why? Why, why, WHY? Each repetition is a hoof slammed into the ground, a sob suppressed. Why is he different from Ma, from Muriel? Where was mercy for them? He doesn’t know. He sucks in a breath.
Ironically, these are the easy questions. Far darker are the what if’s?  and the who thens?  that lurk in the back of his mind, the questions that he cannot face. What if you are wrong?  Tiamat’s voice whispers. He shakes his head once, as if it will silence her. Who then are you?  she murmurs, and he lunges at nothing, teeth bared uselessly against an enemy he cannot fight.
Down the beach, the gulls startle once more. Sides heaving, he glances up and catches sight of the dark silhouette gliding across the sand. Tia--?  But no, though the telltale dagger juts from its head, this one is nearly a hand taller than Tiamat and more heavily muscled. A slight breeze skitters along the shore, carrying the unfamiliar scent to Gull. He freezes.
The choice is laid out before him now, the chance to attack…or the opportunity to know. Before, it never would have been a question, but after days of torment, his resolve has weakened. What if…?  he hears Tiamat whisper, and he hesitates. What if not all of us are what you think we are?  He shakes his head again, but she will not be silenced. What if?  she asks, what if? WHAT I —Enough. In a moment, the choice is made. Though perhaps the bravest thing he has ever done, it is only to make her stop, only to make her go away. Standing before Deimos, he trembles, not because he faces the Lord of Death himself, but because a single gesture of civility on a stranger’s part stands to break him and everything he has ever stood for.
And then he has his answer. A ball of fire barrels forth from the dark beast, clearly meant for him. Unprepared, he yelps and jumps to the side, yanking up his right wing in the nick of time—saved by the reflexes learned all too well from his last fight with Gaucho. Still, his flank stings, and he can smell the awful stench of burned hair. Refolding his wing, he winces, but a harsh chuckle is already escaping his lips. The world is right again.
When the stranger speaks, Gull can only smile. “And what would that be?” he asks lightly. “Your balls?” His gaze flickers pointedly to the stallion’s groin, but only for a moment. It is a cheap distraction, but hopefully it will be long enough to allow him to draw his own dagger. In one swift motion, Gull pulls the sharpened horn from its place on his leg and charges, gripping the dagger sideways in his teeth. He sets his course to the left, veering toward the side where the sand is better packed and intending to drive the knife into his enemy’s throat as he passes by. His eyes glint, hardened for a battle, but his lips curl upwards around the knife. Thanks for the second chance, Tia. I’ll use it well.

"talk talk talk"

Attack: 1/4
WC: 754/800
Summary: Pulls his horn dagger and charges to his left (Deimos' right), where the sand is more packed. Aims for the throat.

Image Credits || coding by Tamme, tweaked by Shady

Please do not tag Gull except for in opening posts or spars!

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

The Reaper wasn’t provoked by petty insults. He was incensed by justice, by vengeance, by abominations and the certainty of violence. It was beautiful and soulless, sinister and depraved, and it chiseled, sculpted, pooled into the core of his chilling being. It crooned and beckoned, it brewed and coiled, it welded down deep into his marrow and funneled through his mind: his own little piece of peace, his own little wicked, decrepit bit of repose. Disaster was the answer, and ruin was the solution. The Pegasus could laugh and chuckle and chortle away, and in the end, it wouldn’t matter, not when he was naught but bones, ash, and dust.
Maybe he didn’t know who he was. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he simply lived as an inept fool, a scavenger squawking and screeching along the tides.
But he’d remember Deimos for the all the pain, all the heartlessness, and all the demonic motions he was about to endure.
The Lord watched for a reaction beyond the yelp and the slander, narrowing his eyes as he sized up his opponent. The flier wouldn’t be a pushover – they were akin to the same build, same height, and same vicious actions – but perhaps they’d be separated by species intellect, by swords, by rapiers, by cutlasses and knives –
So the beast was slightly surprised to see a dagger glinting from his enemy’s jaws (another stolen object, a piece of equipment he’d absconded from some other bereft soul?), aiming in a swinging lance towards his throat. Where had he acquired it? Did he think to slice his veins and the act would be over?
No. He truly didn’t know who he was at all.
He didn’t acknowledge the swelling of befuddlement erupting his senses, the slight raising of his brows. Instead, the predator dug into the thick sand, clawing and scratching at the fathomless denizen, slowed by its petulant wake, by its grasping, snatching dunes. Gull gathered closer and closer to his right side, and the King attempted maneuvering to the left, just enough to only feel the glancing prick of the blade cut along his neck.
The Pegasus had drawn first blood – but surely not the last. Deimos wanted the honor. He wanted the glory of condemning the ridiculous pest to a lifetime of woes and misery and complete, utter regret. He wanted him dead, bones bleached by the sun, crows pecking at his carcass, living out his decaying days just as he had his living ones.
They were closer now, in a ferocious, ruthless range, sinking and unwinding into the nefarious glimmer of rage and defiance. The Reaper, trying to ignore the slight ache in his nape (it’d yet to become a deafening roar, but it was only a matter of time and tribulations), twisted back towards the right, hoping to snag the painted infidel as he rummaged past. What would happen, he wondered with a sinister outlook, with a Machiavellian calculation, with savage, brutal loathing, if he were to pluck his enemy’s feathers?
He turned his skull, his horn, a worthy blade, a fatal saber, towards the fellow brute. In heinous outrage, in the pulsing, wicked abhorrence clinging to his skin, to his sinew, to his flesh and blood, the demon reached out with his sword to lacerate any passing hide along Gull’s left side – hoping for a wing, for flayed hide, for pain and torment to descend upon one who threatened the well being of his kin.

[2/4. 577 words.

Deimos attempts to maneuver to his left to avoid Gull’s dagger, but is still nicked on the right side of his neck, drawing blood. He tries to take advantage of their close proximity to twist back to the right, aiming his horn towards Gull in hopes of lacerating his left side if/when he moves past.]



Gull Posts: 120
Absent Abyss atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16 hh :: 9 (Tallsun) HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Splat :: Royal Zephyr :: Phoenix Shady
underneath it all, we're just savages

Why are you doing this? her voice sighs in the back of his mind, a whisper against the roar of his exuberant gallop. He can feel the weight of her disappointment pressing down on him as he lunges, can see the sadness in her eyes. But he only smirks around the knife, refusing to answer. He doesn’t owe her anything. Not anymore.

Stop, she pleads, but he ignores her. He lengthens his stride, and Deimos grows that much closer. Don’t! she wails, but he doesn’t listen. He can count the strides before impact now, and he hurls the numbers back at her like grenades, drowning out her sobs with a ferocious three…two…ONE…! She screams, and he swings the knife.
He is quick, but his enemy is quicker. Even as Gull moves to slit his throat, the dark beast darts away, leaving just the tip of the dagger bloody—yet that is not all that burns red as his body skims by. The monster knows how to cut too, and he wastes no time in demonstrating his handiwork on the clean white canvas of Gull’s flesh. His grip tightens on the knife as he feels the point of Deimos’ horn slice through his hide, the weight of the hilt on his tongue the only thing stifling his scream. Where Gaucho had once left his mark with fire and Tiamat with herbs, Deimos leaves his in an angry red line. Though the beast has not skewered him deeply enough to tear muscle, his hindquarter pulses, dark and sticky with blood from the gash that runs from thigh to hip. His face contorts, and he kicks out unevenly with his back legs, sending a spatter of red onto the sand.
However, one weak kick in passing is not nearly enough to repay the Reaper for the damage he has inflicted. His back legs have barely hit the sand again when he wheels, spreading his wings to help balance himself on his three good legs. As he pivots, his primaries drag through the sand, spraying it upwards in a fine shower of dust and grit. With any luck, it will find the unicorn’s eyes and buy him enough time to strike once more. However, he cannot wait to confirm that the sand has done its work. Given the quick sequence of his pirouette, he must slash first and judge later. In the cloud of dust, it is difficult to gauge his enemy’s position, but his eyes search for an expanse of flesh far from the reach of Deimos’ darting horn—a flank perhaps, or a thigh. How fun, to have matching scars! he thinks in savage glee. Look, Tia--how fun!
You’re awful, she whispers, but he only laughs to himself, as if it’s a private joke between just the two of them. His eyes lock on his target. Don’t worry, he tells her, raising the knife, it barely hurts.
The blade glints in the sun as he brings it down.
"talk talk talk"

Attack 2/4
WC: 497/800
Summary: Gets his thigh slashed by Deimos’ horn, and kicks out in passing. Pivots, using his wings for balance and sand-throwing, and tries to bring the knife down on Deimos’ flank or thigh.

Image Credits || coding by Tamme, tweaked by Shady

Please do not tag Gull except for in opening posts or spars!

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

Deimos felt like his actions weren’t enough.
That he wasn’t enough.
Somehow, someway, no matter what he concocted or schemed and rolled through his mind, wasn’t enough to dissuade, to condemn, to persecute or ravage. The Pegasus remained, bloodied and skewered, but still tangible, still whole, still possessing all his faculties. To watch him still run around, alive, was disappointing.
The Reaper knew he was more than a walking portrait of obliteration and terror: he was horror, he was death, he was annihilation, and he was the living, breathing sword of the Basin. To have this wretched beast preying on his own, to have him plaguing the borders, to have him absconding with others’ artifacts, was irritating and irking on its own. But to witness him, to feel him, spearing his hide and refusing to quit only infuriated and fueled the beast further.
He was an opus, a tempest, to the rising flames of depravity; and the rage curled, simmered, settled deep into his chest, a pervading, molten mess of embroiled chaos and bedlam.
The Lord felt sand stirring near his feet, the passing edge of a kick not quite meeting his flesh as he darted to the left again, churning against the shore and the dunes, the aching pulse of pain grinding at his temple.  
But again, Deimos’ resistance to bend, to break, to fall under the embrace of scavengers was harpooned; no sooner had he twisted his frame back towards the brute (to savage, to pillage, to plunder), did a bout of grit land along his features, reaching into his sight, gauging at his eyes.
They burned immediately, hot and vicious, scalding and searing. On instinct, he closed them, felt the water behind his lids try to filter away the ferocious siege, shaking his head, completely, utterly enraged by the torment rendered upon his form.
He partially opened them moments later, but his vision, once so predatory and scrutinizing, was naught more than a hazy blur, and he could only spare one solitary motion towards Gull’s movements – trying to rush forward, blindly maneuvering in a charge to get away from the glint of that damn dagger.
Still, it wasn’t sufficient, like some ridiculous, redundant pattern, and the makeshift sword found its target along his right hind, breaking through skin and sinew and blasting through his mind in wretched, immoral torment.
He couldn’t stand by and wait and rest; the temptation wasn’t even there. The devil had come here for a purpose, for an opportunity, and even if he was temporarily blinded, even if he was bleeding and sore and slowed, he’d fulfill his duty to his brethren.
Maybe that resolution would be adequate.
Luckily, he didn’t need swiftness or rapid strides to render his plans effectual. He just required the rising, striking weight of his hate, the scorching abhorrence layered and lacquered to his bones, to his veins, to his wounds.
He distorted the infernal reverie of his enchantments along his muscles, through his chest, amidst the core of his seditious splendor. He managed wrath, contorted contempt, and extended the silent, ferocious blend of nefariousness – death and demise slinked, slithered, and lingered from his hide, wandering in brutal acrimony.
His magic, his namesake, curled and coiled, then sprung towards Gull.
Then something else too, simultaneously, like a spark, like a luminescent glow, began to flicker beneath his mane. Webbed and tangled in the depths of his tendrils was an amulet, ignited, incensed, and instigated to surge by the ire pervading through him.
He wondered, through the smoke and haze and brooding culmination of agony, if the other infidel could ever be stopped. Was this a primrose path lined with only thorns, only edges, only knives? Would it make the adversary discontinue, halt, and cease his actions towards the Basin, or only goad him further?

[3/4. 636 words.
* Deimos dodges Gull’s kick, but the rushing of sand from Gull’s wings momentarily impairs his sights. During this time, he’s also struck by Gull’s dagger along the top of his right hind, breaking through his pelt and causing a laceration.
* In retaliation, he summons his death magic and attempts to hit Gull with it.
* He also activates a Spark amulet. ]


Time the Dice Queen Posts: 144
OOC Account atk: 50 | def: 50 | dam: 50
Mare :: Other :: 5'7 :: 22 HP: 5050 | Buff: DROPKICK
**Deimos' Spark Amulet does not activate because Gull did not use any magic.

Blu the Bootyful Posts: 443
Administrator atk: 99 | def: 99 | dam: 99
Mare :: Other :: 5'7" :: 25 HP: 99999 | Buff: TWERK
Gull defaults to Deimos. Deimos earns 0.5 VP and the wolf hide.
 HP: 1100

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