the Rift

don't threaten me with a good time [vol v morir]

Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
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

Wind tosses the giant's mane into stormy tangles around his thick neck, forcing his eyes to narrow against the gale. Despite the skull on his face, the wind can still access the delicate pupils that gleam starkly against the pattered white of the bone, like rubies in the sockets of his fallen foe's face. They water and blink frantically to clear themselves, whilst the beast lowers his head to alter the angle of the buffeting breeze. The midnight sky is cloudless and there is no threat of rain, and the clear heavens create a brisk autumn night that's made even colder with the windchill. The stallion's flesh quivers as he moves at a heavy trot, his sparse coat little help against the elements.

Out here, in the Flats, there is no shelter from the wind, no respite from the biting jaws of the Gods themselves. There are no trees, no rocks, no nothing as far as the eye can see, which is quite disconcerting to a man like Volterra who is so used to his horizon having a defined border of mountains or ocean. Out here, there is nothing to block his unspoilt view of the place where land meets sand, and he's quite surprised to see that it curves. That...almost implies that the world is round, doesn't it? But that simply cannot be possible, else how does he not tip over when he reaches those distant curves? Such philosophical thoughts have no place on the battlefield, and that is precisely what Volterra intends to turn this place into.

He is used to fighting in relatively enclosed spaces, or at least places where there's a defined edge to the battleground. Here, there is no such thing. There is just the mirror-like ground beneath his feet that reflects the full moon with perfect clarity, and only the ripples from his hooves on the thin surface water serve to disturb the identical image. It even captures colour, because he can see a gleam of gold and red from where his dragons soar high above him in perfect lazy circles, as awestruck as he is by the sheer emptiness of this land. Last time he and Vérzés came here, it was to fight a God, not admire the scenery. Although he intends to fight here again, this time he has chance to take in the eerie beauty of the land before he gets down to the brutal business of war.

The sand is moist, sucking at his hooves as he shifts from trot to walk, but it's a far cry from the deadly mire he'd suffered through when he fought Grimalkin during the raging storm. He eases to a halt, tossing his mane out of his face and prancing slightly on the spot to test the footing. Perfect. Lifting his colossal head, the young stallion bellows for an opponent, feeling the familiar hum of excitement begin to build in his chest. ""


@Morir spar !

Set in the Halcyon Flats after dark, windy but not rainy. Up to you about magic/companions! <3

0/3 - 488 words

image credits

[ 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 ]

Morir Posts: 79
Up For Adoption atk: 4.5 | def: 6.5 | dam: 3.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 4 HP: 54 | Buff: NOVICE
Arwydd :: Raven :: None Adoptable
so make me your deadman, with only poison in my veins,
stuck in your wonderland,
stagnated by the passivity, I'm gonna make you b l e e d like me;

A hellion cares not for borders or boundaries, hold no esteem in defined measures or rules drafted in unison. Rebels and renegades, they wander freely because they choose to be free - unbowed, unbroken. May it be that they had sought refuge within the cozy confines of a woodland prison; it didn't mean they would remain there forever, or let themselves be chained down by votes of majority, democracy and ridiculous notions of peace.

That this land, vast and deserted, did not previously exist in the land roughly defined as Helovia is of no concern to the midnight ghoul. That he hasn't set foot on these waterlogged sands before does not necessarily mean they never were here. Lately his perception of time, distance and location has been warped, skewed by the sudden appearance of light, shapes, landmarks. Where previously a lake was just a lake, the past year had seen him fed with recurring images from the pestilential raven, such that a tree no longer is separate from another tree and one mountain suddenly is vastly different from another.

Confused, bewildered, reluctant to absorb these changes the restless ghoul withdraws from the touch of the soul-bond, secludes himself in the familiar darkness of his own mind. With no eyes to sting and tear he walks headlong into the biting wind, shivering only marginally in the comfortable drape of sable velvet, acquired in the far north where snow already lies thick. For once his stride is loose and easy, confident; the ceaseless croaks and caws of the bird is swallowed by the vastness of oblivion, revealing nothing whatsoever for him to trip over, stumble on or tangle into.

Braced by the comfortable familiarity of his blindness and the open space Morir ease himself into a brisk trot, a rolling canter - and when a call upon the wind sets his blood on fire he turn easily and trace it back to the source, to the waiting opponent. Ready to answer the challenge.

He has his own way of assessing an opponent. There is much to be gained from listening to the earth; the sound of grinding dust beneath big, heavy feet, a whisper of silk as hair rustle in the breeze - long, but not excessively so. He knows the measure of a challenger on the time it takes from one footfall to the next, recognize deep breaths and youthful timbre of a worthy opponent when he meets one. Once, he circle around the gladiator, the confidence of his stride and arched neck eerie in the face of the sightless sockets, and then Morir slow to a brisk walk, still circling the man with plenty of distance to spare.

Inclining his head marginally he touch the tip of massive horns to the ground, drawing a lazy line in the sand - slowly, while steady feet measure the spring and firmness of the ground.

"I do hope you are the one who called" he says, deep voice rich and smooth and barely more than a whisper. "It's been some time since I had a good fight... Would you try your luck against a blind man, boy?"

He grins beneath the pallid mask, eyeless sockets fixed on the focus of his attention, uncannily as though he really could see. High above, blown like a rag across the windswept heavens, the raven cawed again. Morir raised his head higher and breathed in, tasting an acrid scent he had encountered only rarely, and never before tested his strength against. This was, perhaps, not the best time to do so either.

"Lets leave the kids out of it, shall we..."

A suggestion, but that was all it is; he will face whatever the opponent have in mind. Such is the way on the battlefield - you never get to choose your enemies.

PC: 0/3
WC: 636

Note: I say we use them. Feel free to lie if you want to. ^^

chaoticmelodies & larfsalot @deviantart |


♦ Please tag Morir in all replies! 

Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
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

The voice is a rasp in his eager ears, and immediately his eyes rest upon their would-be opponent. Straight away, excitement bristles inside the juggernaut's chest as he sees the size of his foe, the warrior's posture that denotes a worthy nemesis, the three ruthlessly long, savage horns that crown the face like obsidian javelins. A smirk splits the behemoth's jaws as his gaze darts across the antlered bone that adorns his erstwhile foe's head, lending him a menacing air that Volterra can quite appreciate.

To the unicorn's first words, he nods, still unaware that the other cannot see. "It was me." Then, as the male speaks again, Volterra's heart sinks. Blind. He's fucking blind. So much for a worthy opponent! How can he take pride in kicking the shit out of a blind man?! It is no better than crushing a helpless child, or snapping the frail carapace of an ant beneath his hooves. These devilish thoughts pound the back of his mind, fighting for authority, addling his brain with bitter disappointment.

It is tempting to walk away. To refuse to cross swords with a blind man, to take his business and his brawn elsewhere. But the horned one seems eager to fight, and perhaps it will be good practice for Volterra to tangle with an opponent he's expected to defeat. It is a different sort of pressure to that which he's faced in the past - against Grimalkin and Ciceron, he was the underdog against an older and more experienced foe, allowing him to fight freely without fear of the consequences. Win or lose, it was about the experience, the practice, gathering fragments of fighting intelligence and piecing them into one coherent whole. This time, the sheer shame of falling to a blind man means he has to win, and that is a weight he is unused to having on his young shoulders.

This is a rare opportunity to test himself with that weight, and he slowly nods his colossal head before remembering Morir cannot see. "If you're sure."

Despite his desire to win, he makes a silent pact with himself, with the small hint of goodness that festers in his black heart - he'll go easy on the blind man. He won't annihilate him as his arrogance tells him he can, he'll simply do what it takes to win and no more. There's no need to humiliate the poor bastard, as he's undoubtedly depressed enough. Volterra cannot imagine not being able to see the sun dying on the horizon, the iridescent gleam of dragon scales, the sumptuous curves of a woman's body spread like a feast beneath him. No, the unicorn has enough pain in his life without Volterra crushing any last shred of esteem from him.

His dragons shriek indignantly at the other man's suggestion to leave the kids out of it, and he can feel their hunger as they fix their gaze on the great raven nearby. But Volterra grunts his agreement - he's quite confident he can win without the help of his companions. Shutting them out, the behemoth focuses completely on his opponent. Although he's sure of his victory, it's important not to grow complacent, and he carries out his assessment as rigorously as always. He notes the man's superior age, and no doubt he has some tricks up his sleeve in order to conquer his lack of eyes. Their sizes are equal, although Volterra's draft heritage probably lends him greater strength. The counterweight of this is that the unicorn is undoubtedly faster and more agile, something Volterra will have to be careful of.

His assessment complete, the behemoth launches from a standstill into a ground-shaking canter. He aims to approach Morir head-on, but as he charges he attempts something...different. He stomps his feet, hard, and instead of running in a straight line, he zig-zags. His aim is to create an utter din, a great clashing cacophony of noise to try and confuse the blind unicorn. After all, Volterra is assuming that he will compensate for his lack of eyes by using his ears, and so the brute hopes to cause such an almighty racket that Morir simply can't detect him.

As he nears his foe, the beast feints to his right, attempting to run parallel with the unicorn. He throws his weight to his forequarters and kicks his hindlegs out to his left in a savage cow-kick, aiming for the middle of Morir's left ribcage. Last time he tried this attack, against Grimalkin, he ended up falling on his arse - like the old addage about getting back on the horse, Volterra is eager to reassure himself that he can perform this attack successfully. He does not aim to shatter the man's ribs, simply bruise them and let him know he's in a fight.


@Morir spar !

1/3 - 799 words

image credits

[ 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 ]

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

Helovia Hard Mode

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