the Rift


[OPEN] Saviors and Saints, Devils and Heathens [Deimos, Open]

Rhiannon Posts: 76
Outcast atk: 4.0 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7.0
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 6 Years HP: 62.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Sparrow
#1
                                                               
There was a chill that settled along her spine, that pumped with the pulse of her very heartbeat, flowing through every vein and permeating every orifice. Rhiannon relished every second, every step further into this frozen kingdom, letting the cold seep into her core and dance with the chill in her heart, a tingle of pleasure caressing her insides. Where the chill might ward off some, it did nothing but reassure the brindled beast that she was home.

The Aurora Basin looked quite like she remembered; the reflective lake loomed in the distance, the thick tundra grass and green needle-trees reminding her of her younger years spent within this same place. How many times had she trailed along at Crowley's hooves during his meetings or private affairs? It was so good to be home...

A pleasurable sigh left the brindled devil's lips, dual-toned eyes surveying the land that was as intimately familiar to her as her last bed-mate. Zandora's earlier words rang absolute in her head; Deimos was still Lord of these lands, but Hotaru was a Lady.

"Harrumph."

Thought of the coral-colored maiden was enough to be a momentary nuisance, but Rhiannon pushed those thoughts aside to be dwelled upon by another time. Eventually she would cross paths with her previous mistress, and then, and only then would she allow herself to dwell on the past. For now she had the future to look towards, and that would be here, in the Basin, should she be allowed to call the place home once more.

With a lazy, yet confident sashay, the dark unicorn crossed the white snow covered ground to the lake, lowering her maw to the reflective surface and lipping at the ice-cold water before drawing in a few deep gulps. A flick of a frosted tail, a quirk of an ear, and Rhiannon waited.

ooc: I would like if Deimos posted before anyone else jumped in. Thanks! 

 

@Deimos

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

master of nothing place


Contorted bedlam, feverish persecution, cruelty, villainy, and atrocity in a slinking, slithering wave of death and damnation, the monster crossed over his lands with no intention other than a vicious walk, a piercing, puncturing footfall, a nefarious, nonchalant stroke of his sedition. It was common place for him to wander amidst the pinnacles of annihilation and depravity with no goal in sight except a predacious air, a sinister rapture, an abhorrent return to glimpsing his mountains, his peaks, his valleys, his borders. An unholy crescendo, a wraith, a flame, a pinnacle of demise, he moved with a sinister swing, a vile, distorted crawl, one more shadow occupying the hills and caves, one more illustrious demon, one more infamous infidel dipped by devilish hands. His existence was a constant story, an unyielding myth, of scars and brutality, wreckage and havoc, arrogance and iniquity, and it was so strange, so mind-boggling, so perplexing to him that now, when he’d been on a throne and crowned and still, utterly nonchalant, how much he’d altered, how much he’d morphed and eroded. It’d been slow, stitch by stitch, seam by seam, gradually unraveling until he noted the frayed ends (his failures, his defects, his flaws), the strong, durable covering (the indifference, the reticence, registered along his brow), and everything else laid in between (his emotions, his feelings, the losses and liberations, the deliverances and mercies). Yet, even still, he remained – changed, but still stone, still marble, still pieced together by rapiers and defiance, by calculations and hate, by malice and wickedness. While some left, while some fled, while some forgot or no longer cared or simply became wholly indifferent to the wind, to the storms, to the snow and mayhem, he remained, one more piece of the rock, rubble, and ruin. Ice was in his blood, sewn within his veins, stretching from one muscle to the next, feral and united with quietus, flame, and vehemence.
 
But then – maybe others did hear the call of the tempestuous airs, the heartless void, the glacial veil plucking at their hearts, their entities, their brutal, twisted, nefarious little souls –
 
Because there was Rhiannon, a daughter of the Plague, standing along the horizon, snatching at the lake’s waters.
 
The Lord surveyed the moment in predacious silence, uncertain and unsure of what to say or do. The sentiments harpooning through his mind, however, were choking granules of contentment and satisfaction, because someone had returned, because someone remembered, because someone knew what it was like to call this place home, and no matter how many times they ran off into the void, they still wandered amidst the splendor, the decadence, the iniquitous, devouring kingdom. Rhiannon was a spirit of the past and a potential herald to the future, had immersed herself in sieges, in seas of terror, in horrors and plights and pandemonium, harbored obliteration, achieved devastation, and just simply belonged to this unholy, derisive world. She’d been born into its bloodshed. She’d been brought into its sanctuary, its cruel, criminal haven. She’d been raised into the blackened, barbaric foundation.
 
He wanted to tell her he was glad she was back. He wanted to ask her about what she’d done, what she’d seen, what she’d murdered and ravaged, pillaged and plundered. He wanted to tell her of plans for the future – of unwinding enemies and flaying opponents and snagging, snatching, and absconding everything from the rest of the world, but all he could do was stare, close in on her brindled frame, and delve his deep, crackling vocals over the edges of the embankment. “Rhiannon,” he beseeched, lowering his head towards in chest and returning it back to its position moments thereafter. “You have returned?”

image credits


@Rhiannon

Albrecht Posts: 249
Aurora Basin Impersonator atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 2.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1hh :: 19 (Orangemoon) HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Strom :: Suma Ball Python :: None Townsen
#3
Circular ripples pulse away from the stallion’s bearded chin as he dips it into the clear water of the Basin lake seeking refreshment, but it’s not the waters movement that catches his eye. On the opposite shore stands yet another unfamiliar face, nearly blurred into the backdrop of whites and greys by her unusual striping and washed out colors.

Agitation pricks the elder’s hairpin sensitivities, drawing his tufted tail across his flanks as if to shoo the feeling away. Is it such an unreasonable wish to have just one moment of peace and quiet? He roams the valley’s inner quadrants to familiarize and investigate, not to be caught up in activities and conversation every five seconds, but the mountainous walls of the Basin loom above him, seeming to find continual amusement in corralling the old man and forcing community interaction from his angry, hermitic ways.

Well mare or no mare, he has no energy today for painting, cleaning, or any other conceivable waste of time and effort. The girl is well acquainted with the Basin or else the sentinels have shirked their duties. More movement tilts his gaze aside, this time latching onto the slinking, threatening pace of Deimos the Reaper.

Now there is a man of action. The Lord of the Basin seems to spill across the landscape like a wildcat streaking impossibly quick and smooth behind some hapless prey. Albrecht waits, watching, unwilling to intervene where the Reaper chooses to reap, but as he nears the silver mare his actions soften. The black cannot hear what words are spoken, but he arches a brow in curious wonder. What lies between the stranger and his king to sprout such unexpected civility?



@Rhiannon @Deimos
           
[Image: 56c616e54affc]Rated M, R, NC-17, AO, 18+, NSFW
Tag dat azz!  @Albrecht
Violence & Magic okay.
Wish - Away - OOC


Rhiannon Posts: 76
Outcast atk: 4.0 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7.0
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 6 Years HP: 62.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Sparrow
#4
                                                               
He came, streaking like ink across the snow-capped surface, like poisonous oil, spilling out into the kingdom that he ruled and marring every inch, every corner, sullying it for the taste of all but their brethren. Rhiannon did not move, did not quiver or quake with fear like some might when caught in the path of the Reaper. Instead, she leisurely finished her drink, lips damp with sparkling, cold water as a ebony head slowly, gracefully lifted to be held proudly upon an arched neck. Molten, burning gold and frozen, icy silver regarded the Lord as he approached, watching him with blatant keen interest.

Seeing Deimos' familiar form only rekindled the fact that she was home, and no matter the distance that she had trekked, the travels she partook in, the murders and pillages and blood she had shed, this would always be home. So long as her own kind thrived in their frozen hell, she would swear fealty to it.

He nods to her, an action of knowing, of camaraderie, of brotherhood and alliance, of secrets that could not leave their lips, and a quirked, warped, positively feral grin crosses the brindled devil's maw. There is another, she spies, standing across the lake and watching them like a hawk, judging her, but she pays the silent watcher no mind. Her priority and attention was only for the Reaper. There is some sort of sick, twisted satisfaction that he remembers her name, a pride that she, somehow, shone bright amidst the carnage and bloodshed to force a place in the stag's mind.

"Your Lordship," she croons in a likewise greeting, keeping her distance from the Reaper and acquainting herself with her eyes, only. No touching. Never touching. "I have. Many places I have traveled, but none will replace these mountains. I desire to call this place home again, for it has always been my home, and I yearn to serve it in whatever way it needs."

To keep it safe, to protect it, to keep this beautiful, frozen treasure free from those who do not deserve it. There were questions she wanted to ask, like the whereabouts of her father, or truly any of her family, but for now the brindled devil would keep her mouth shut.

"Have I missed anything of utmost importance?"


@Deimos

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
#5

Deimos the Reaper

master of nothing place


  Their world had been built upon secrets. They’d been honored with a kingdom, a sovereign, and growing below it, seething in the underbelly, in the dungeons, in the groves, had been cunning, disastrous wiles. Covert, furtive cloak and dagger creeds, meticulous machinations, cruel, vicious designs, upheavals and sedition, decadence and subversion – they’d clawed and scraped and chiseled their way through loss, through failures, through conquest and emerged beyond the pale with glaciers and chilling, barbaric winds; reminders of their brutality, of their allegiance to pariahs and power. Only a few recollected, only a few remained, only a few hadn’t been taken away from their rancorous manor, and he wanted to keep them within these dominating, supreme walls, where they could remember the ways things used to be, before alliances, before armistices, before he had a crown on his head, before a Reaper, a General, turned King and the world became all the more stifling. Did they look upon the Edge as he did, with haunting glimmers and poignant reminders of failure? Did they wonder about Psyche’s lost legacy, Mauja’s separation from their threshold, or all the nestled queries lying in between the dust, the runes, the labyrinths? Did she – this brindled mare who resembled so much of her father, whose Basin blood ran, curled, and coiled in the midst of all their triumphant reveries, cherish the days long gone, or the new ones just beginning to spiral? Rhiannon was one of the loyal, one of the strong, one of the confident shapes that had been molded and twisted from the fibers of their prior vocations. Her parents had been pieces of hate and malice, just like the rest of their sharp, acidic lot, fragments of a greater whole. But Crowley strayed, and Elizabeth died, and Rhiannon had become a splintered shard too – one more drifting in and out of their cold, overbearing halls, coming and going, wandering and wayfaring.
 
Did she want to stay this time? Or was she due to saunter once more?
 
His eyes were pressed only to her figure as she spoke, as she delved into the call of the peaks, as she articulated serving the empire she’d always known. The beast’s mind churned with a mass of queries and questions: why did you leave (why do they all leave?), where did you go, did it make you stronger, or did it make you simply flee, back into this dark world? None of them were voiced, none of them were given an opportunity to do anything but fester and ruin. Instead, only his nonchalant features, usually woven in ice, in reticence, in apathetic nuances, chiseled the smallest of smiles along his mouth. “I am glad to see you again.” It was the truth, and it sprung elegantly from his frame as he glanced across the lake, watched a stranger watching them – lifting his brow but saying naught more on the subject. “We are in need of crafters, spies, or soldiers.” His narrowed gaze landed firmly upon her once more, as if daring her to ask about the healing rank (which was shockingly strong and impacting; as if they presumed Basiners would forever need a large quantity of menders).
 
Rhiannon yearned for answers too, and it was oddly refreshing and satisfying to yield to conversing and discourse without having a massive impact riddled along his shoulders. There was nothing about alliances or drawn battle lines. There was naught about woven threads of their next actions, their brooding methods, their whirlwind machinations and the potential for slaughter. The King breathed in a restless breeze and conquered lingering demons, comprising a role of wisdom and sagacity instead of a molten foundation of disaster and destruction. He didn’t plunge into fibers of ruin and plundering and pillaging. He didn’t harpoon the nearest village. He didn’t topple the closest tower. There was no need for chaos, bedlam, and mayhem when reminiscing with a friend. “Only the opening of the Rift.” Deimos allowed the strange word to pass his lips before striking into his low, methodical tones again. “Four new lands have emerged. Each had a battle with a God, ours and theirs. With assistance from the Helovians, the Rift Gods were destroyed.” He almost laughed, nearly chuckled, intending to ruffle her feathers with an indication that she’d missed some range of violence and amusement. But rather than tease and taunt, he left the subject nestled and tied there, awaiting either her further curiosity or naught at all.

image credits


@Albrecht @Rhiannon

Albrecht Posts: 249
Aurora Basin Impersonator atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 2.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1hh :: 19 (Orangemoon) HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Strom :: Suma Ball Python :: None Townsen
#6
He wanders closer, half expecting the pair to chase him off – half hoping that they would. Then again, chase is a strong word. He’s in no condition to be running, least of all from these two lifetime athletes. It just feels wrong to intrude on a conversation where the other members appear so familiar with one another, so similar in make, especially when one of them is your freakishly intimidating King.

In comparison Albrecht stands apart, like an old cow so rundown that the lions let him wander their enclosure unbothered, but the cow will never truly forget the nature of lions and Albrecht will never fully trust the Reaper or those who share his type. There’s a wildness in their eyes that makes him feel uneasy. They seem to look through him rather than at him and it isn’t with the careless dismissal of arrogance that they pass him over (there’s nothing alarming about an inflated ego) but with the full bodied confidence of knowing exactly what they’re capable of.

He shoves the feeling away, telling himself that if the Lord of the Basin hadn’t seen fit to crush the life from his lungs at the tent painting event he probably won’t be tempted in a random border encounter. Still though, he holds his head a just a little bit lower and reins in his usual coarseness.

“Welcome.” He offers simply, nodding to both. The mare has obviously gained approval already and from the only herd member that really matters, so he sees no reason to question. In an impressive (at least to those who may have met him before) display of both respect and good manners he then shuts his filthy trap and resolves to keep it that way until spoken to.

The Reaper talks about job titles and god wars, things of actual interest, and draws the old blacks peevish ears forward. He’s met the candy coated crafter and seen a few of the bullish warriors roaming about, but he wonders at the word, “spies.” What all does that entail?



@Deimos @Rhiannon
           
[Image: 56c616e54affc]Rated M, R, NC-17, AO, 18+, NSFW
Tag dat azz!  @Albrecht
Violence & Magic okay.
Wish - Away - OOC


Rhiannon Posts: 76
Outcast atk: 4.0 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7.0
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 6 Years HP: 62.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Sparrow
#7
                                                               
Once again the devil's two-toned eyes drifted across the smooth surface of the lake, resting confidently upon the shaggy stranger that continued to stand stationary and watch them. What did he want? Did he know Deimos? Rhiannon's chin lifted a bit in dominance, in defiance, in stubborn superiority that she had developed since a petite filly and directed her burning gaze back to the Reaper.

His following words echoed in her skull, that he was glad to see her, and a warped quirk twitched the brindled beast's lips upwards in a snarling sort of grin, eyes wild, yet humbled. "I feel the same, your Lordship," she purred with a dip of her crowned head, frosted curls trailing along the crest of her neck and brushing against an ample, shadowed bosom, "I feel like a stranger in this land, and it is relieving for me to see a familiar face. I... Have not seen nor heard of my family."

If there was even any of them left.

The vehement King continued on, speaking eloquently of the changes within the Aurora Basin. He extrapolated the details, pressing their dire need of crafters, spies, and soldiers. Rhiannon's expression faltered. Once, the beast had held the title of Weaver, and while it had been with honor that she had carried it, she had failed miserably while holding the title, shaming her father's memory as Weaver. Although craftsmanship would always be within her blood, within her core, perhaps her fate would not be to pursue such an artistic purpose within the Basin once again... Perhaps, something darker? Something deeper? More mysterious, requiring her to use her mind, her cunning skills of deceit?

Yet the life of a soldier would always beckon her. Rhiannon was a specter, a devil, a drunk that overindulged on carnage and bloodshed. She yearned for the battlefield, for the adrenaline, the euphoric thrill, the need to physically thrust her dominance on others...

Instead of picking a title, the female straightened, eyes once more shooting to the stranger as he drew closer. She snorted. Did he finally discover the gall to approach? Dual-toned eyes are as sharp as knives, staring, judging, molten-gold and frozen-silver baring nothing other than judgement. Surprisingly he offers a one word of welcome, and Rhiannon is pleased.

"Thank you, stag." She breathed upon a sultry murmur, letting her eyes roam his aged frame, from the tip of his horn to the final tuft of his tail. "And welcome to you." Rhiannon listened as Deimos spoke of the 'Rift', whatever the hell that was, and the fierce battle that was apparently fought in her absence. She snorted once more, this time in indignation. Of course.

Leave for a few months and all hell breaks loose. Of course.

"You know I am never afraid of a little scuffle, your Lordship," Rhiannon stated, deciding to simply cut straight to the point, "I desire to serve the Basin in more ways than one; I want to be a spy and serve from the darkness, but I desire to hone my skills when you assign spars and battles. I will make amends for my inactivity and my absence over the last few months, if you will give me the chance."

The devil within her condemned her decisions, her weaknesses, but the desperate woman in her breast prayed that he would. Purpose was what she needed, a target, a point, otherwise her mind would drive her into turmoil once again. Madness was a pale word that described her mental state, and maybe, just maybe, coming home would help soothe the demons.


@Deimos @Albrecht

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
#8

Deimos the Reaper

master of nothing place


  The beast was never entirely sure what he craved more: the days of old, where all he needed to do was mutilate, devastate, and unravel, or the moments pieced together and shaped like this one, strokes of the past brought back to life across an ivory canvas. Rhiannon was one more who’d returned from wherever and whenever, because she believed in the crux and infernal essence of their world, because she cherished and honored the lays of their land. He’d done the same for what felt like centuries, tirelessly placing his heart, his soul, his diligence and devotion into each summit, into each peak.
 
He listened – one of the few, virtuous skills he’d had in his possession since birth – breaking apart his statue lines and his monument motions to flick an ear her way, to cast his stare back towards the brindled femme, to remember the way life used to be. The beast deigned for a rush of moments to witness the other stag finally cross along their path, to cease gaping and gawking, but his attention wavered; the stallion would have his instances later, after Rhiannon had said her piece, after she decided what she was going to do amongst their earth. It was gratifying, satisfying, to have her back within their icy grasp, and her intentions curled amongst his curiosity – he recalled her as a Weaver, taking her father’s position once he’d wandered off into the bracken and hillsides. But it appeared as if the choice was not segmented into cutting cloth again, perhaps she’d had her fill, but of dual ways to serve. Another smile hastened to his lips, small and minute, but there all the same, not dragged through merciless, ruthless rows or hung from nooses amongst the gallows; merely resting comfortably in the hollows and hallows of yesteryear. There were always advantages to having cretins and fiends in more than one role; those who maneuvered within shadows, those who snagged information, those who toiled in thievery and exploits were bound to require fighting skills – it was the nature of their employment. While his reign had been sprung from the warrior edges and the soldier fringes, she wanted to pay tribute to cunning wiles and mercenary endeavors, while strengthening her tactical mind. It was a notion to be admired – he wished half as many of their healers or apprentices yearned to do the same (after all, who knew when they would be caught in a rampage, in a battle, doomed and consigned to oblivion?). The Reaper’s words maneuvered along his lips, the commendations poised and ready. “I have always believed a spy should be ready for battle,” and there the smile deepened, just a smidgen more, as if he relished the chance, the notion, of any kindling towards violence, upheaval, and distortion. “May you be a victorious Phantom.”
 
Then, the grin disappeared as he attention scattered back to the other, whose name he’d yet to hear, but whose presence had seemingly rooted itself within their glacial walls overnight.  He’d yet to interrogate him on anything – he’d been too distracted at the painting lesson to question the motivations of the stag. The penetrating, piercing weight of his stare slid solely to the older male, intending to examine and scrutinize further – intending to understand the nature of this beast who roamed without a moniker. “Who are you? How do you serve the Basin?”


image credits


@Albrecht @Rhiannon

Albrecht Posts: 249
Aurora Basin Impersonator atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 2.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1hh :: 19 (Orangemoon) HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Strom :: Suma Ball Python :: None Townsen
#9
It's not curiosity that kills the cat - It's complacency. Everything about the Lord of the Basin screams predator, murderer, danger. He doesn't hide his venom behind pleasant smiles or kind words, but wears it bright and blinding in the tension of his muscles and the gleam of his penetrating focus. The tip of his horn glows brightly blue like the sickly florescence of poison dart frogs: a nature-made billboard proclaiming the beasts lethality and still old Albrecht lets himself fall prey. Like the cow in the lion enclosure he's lingered too long at the water hole, drinking unbothered as the lions move in, past peaceful encounters overriding his instinctive need to run. Stupid, he chides himself.

"Albrecht." He answers plainly, trying to decide in the fifths and tenths of a second between heartbeats what next move would least likely bring immediate impalement. The Lord Deimos has no need or want of civil pleasantries. He values practical assets above all else, so no adherence to the straight and narrow will convince him to allow a superfluous body safe passage in his kingdom. Inhaling deeply, bracingly, the old man lays out his cards - bent and discolored as they are.

"I have lived within these walls for an entire season without acceptance or assignment from the ruling bodies of your herd. I have mingled with the masses in official gatherings, received the ministries of healers, the worksmanship of crafters, and interfered with the acceptance of potential members by your soldiers and Corporal Ki'irha without any more question than the petty annoyance and exasperation that accompanies my nature. I have attended the birth of a new colt and spent hours alone with your head Thief Rexanna and still not been poked or prodded as to who I am or why I am here."

Talent, luck, or fault by either side, the facts stand damning. "I enjoy the anonymity, having been otherwise for most of my life. I won't insult you by claiming any potential or prowess in battle - you can see that I have none - but you may still find use of me as a spy. The old and the ugly are easily overlooked in this land of young and beautiful."

It's more than he's said to anyone during his time here, but still he fears it's not enough. What does rejection mean among monsters?



@Deimos @Rhiannon
           
[Image: 56c616e54affc]Rated M, R, NC-17, AO, 18+, NSFW
Tag dat azz!  @Albrecht
Violence & Magic okay.
Wish - Away - OOC


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
#10

Deimos the Reaper

master of nothing place


 He watched, waited, and listened as predators did – a slinking, slithering salutation of corruption, chaos, and calamity, awaiting the discourse of the elder to ultimately finish. Perhaps the beast had been a thorn in sides and naught in another’s; by the layer and lacquer that he recites, he’d certainly found himself amidst decadence and devilry. Maybe he enjoyed it, maybe he nourished it, maybe he cultivated it as the rest of them did, too bitter, too rancorous, to do anything else but dive into the craft of damnation and dedication. Did he, however, want to hunted and stalked, questioned and queried? Did he want hounds loosened upon their chains, following him until the end of his days? Did he pinpoint some fault in Deimos, in Hotaru, in the sovereigns because they hadn’t gone after, sought out, the slinking, withering bones? His brow arched, the only indication of possible exasperation and annoyance – because he could take blame upon himself, because he could find fault in his character for every moment of every day, because somehow, someway, not a moment could go by without being reminded of his flaws. Deimos did not actively seek out the others of his herd without purpose, without reason, he was not a man of active conversation, of wondering how one might be feeling. He spent his days calculating moves and maneuvers, how to ensure his empire succeeded in whatever task, in whatever quest, in whatever crusade fell at their feet. He wanted them strong, he wanted them mighty, he wanted them bestial and brave – and perhaps Albrecht was those things, but by different means and measures.  “You have been busy, Albrecht.” He said no more on the particulars of not being inquired at length as to what he sought and what he craved; twisting the depths of his ears to listen to the slate of anonymity, how he enjoyed being hidden in the yearnings, in the coils, of the Basin, and pondering to what end this would lead. The old and the ugly are easily overlooked… - he almost laughed, but refrained, for even the most dangerous, the most hostile, could be disregarded, neglected, for any number of reasons. The Reaper was always one to analyze his options, to endeavor into cold-blooded machinations – and if the rogue had managed to survive in their cruel, indifferent world, he had a chance to reign in the denomination of spies and sleuths. “You may be a Phantom.” His crown nodded in assent, briefly looking to Rhiannon, before turning back to the older stag. “Rexanna will guide both of you.”

[Wanted to wrap this up for rank things! ;D Sorry about the wait!]

image credits


@Albrecht

Albrecht Posts: 249
Aurora Basin Impersonator atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 2.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1hh :: 19 (Orangemoon) HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Strom :: Suma Ball Python :: None Townsen
#11
The Reaper says little, but his words are larger than their syllables. His three brief sentences give permission, passage, acceptance, and name Albrecht an official member of the herd. The old man is given a rank, entry level as it may be, directly from the Lord of the Basin, an authority that cannot be questioned by any lower tier of governance – not even the Pissy-Pants warriors with their endless flow of hate speech and self-import. A grin of relief breaks across his weathered face, smoothing away the lines of tension that had formed between and around his eyes. He swings his gaze to the brindled mare, triumphant, but her impassive stance and sharp features remind him of his irrelevance here.

“Thank you.” He intones softly, and with a courteous nod he backs away from the pair, stepping blindly backward until he’s far enough removed from the conversation to be considered departed – and well out of reach. Best not to push his luck when things have gone so uncharacteristically well for once. It’s not until he begins to turn away that he looses the brunt of his own emotions and flushes invisibly beneath the coal of his coat. He lowers his head and inhales deeply, letting the waylaid sensations wash over his tired body as he walks. He knows he'd be a fool not to fear them, but he’d be an even bigger fool to show them a weakness and give them even the slightest reason to cull him from his so newly acquired herd.


OOC // I just wanted to respond and finish this up for my own closure. Feel free to continue without me if you want. <3



@Deimos
           
[Image: 56c616e54affc]Rated M, R, NC-17, AO, 18+, NSFW
Tag dat azz!  @Albrecht
Violence & Magic okay.
Wish - Away - OOC



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