the Rift


[OPEN] Looking Back Like a Pillar of Salt

Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#1


He is—happy.

It is a peculiar sensation, curious and wrong, for long ago he had decided he hated the beach for its abundance in foolish fillies. He stalks there now only by the virtue of duty, of one in a series of endless, mind-numbing patrols that tire his patience. It gnaws on him to be this obedient errand boy, to perform meaningless tasks day after day, week after week, to do nothing but allow himself and others in his herd to grow fat, complacent. Where is the battle?

Even these sour musings refuse to undermine the buoy in his breast as he stalks the white, sun-washed beach. The sea churns beside him, sapphire bright and sparkling with the rare noon-sun’s rays while Ka’Ora soars upon the rays of light, borne by salted winds undercut with the frost of the season. Again, it does little to dampen the basilisk’s spirits; Ka’Ora is glad, and he is glad.

He dreams—as he always does. Always, before his eyes, images and fancies of a future caught and controlled by himself lull him into peace, catching his patience before the idiocies of the common man’s life fray his ends. They were only dreams, though, and he knows this—but, somehow, the birth of little feet upon the ground has somehow changed that all, and the dreams he had dreamt for so long seem not only possible—but surely, they are inevitable, should all his steps be careful, all his moves be precise, meticulous. Oh—and how he revels in such a challenge! His mind whirls, his thoughts tumble and scramble into place as he decides upon a future for his--children.

His current children. His future children.


It is such, he forgets to look for those others he is supposed to meet; he is caught in the webs of his thoughts, stalking a lonely beach as his harpies wing themselves far, far above. A crab waddles its way in his path; he remembers how, as a boy, he had loved to hunt them. Great grey hooves lift high above the creature, skirting its life, and it scuttles away from the iron bulk, spared and safe. He is that happy. 


"talk talk talk"

R E G I N A L D

Walk the razor's edge
Cut into the madness
Question all you trust
Image Credit


Patrol Thread!
@Spice
@Nasreen
And maybe @Nymeria?



--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!

--All force is allowed to be used against this character!



Abraham Posts: 113
Absent Abyss atk: 4.5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.3 hh :: Three years HP: 71 | Buff: NOVICE
Gwyneverre :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath & Brienne :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Frost Breath Time
#2
Throw the bait, catch the shark, bleed the water red
Fifty words for murder and I'm every one of them

For as much disdain as his brother held for this beach, Abraham loved it. In this place he had been given Gwnyeverre. Recently, this place had blessed his dragons with quite a filling meal. In fact, the blood still lingered on their scales, painting their already brilliant hues of white and gold with a beautiful, smeared crimson. Abraham moved down the shoreline easily, his muscles trained against the pull of the sand. The tide ebbed up and reached with foamy fingers for his feathered hooves, touching him with such seduction. Come play, each wave begged. He could almost hear the voices of the sirens calling him to the depths.

Abraham knew the power of water.

He continued on the sand.

Dragons soared overhead and did not stir his mind until they caught the sight of something familiar. Brienne alerted first, seeing brown feathers touch the golden sun before her green eyes. Gwyneverre joined, sending images of the first harpy's twin. The behemoth lifted his head, mismatched eyes instinctively searching the beach. His heart scuttled, the sea salt filled air filling his lungs with vigor, nostrils searching for the scent of what followed those disastrous harpies.

Reginald. The dragons spoke in tandem, delight filling their breasts that mirrored the leviathan's. The beast had not laid eyes upon his wombmate since he had mounted and claimed the pale female who was to patrol with his brother. Lifting into a high-kneed trot, Abraham quickened his pace down the shoreline. His dragons darted in the air, wings beating hard against the strong winds.

There! Gwyneverre alerted, trilling into the wind. It was unheard, but the image of his brother walking towards him made the stallion lower his gait. He stood, waiting, for his brother to crest a sandy knoll and lay eyes on him, on his strength and his brilliance. When the stag finally did, Abraham lifted his chin and met the Eyes of Grey, his own mismatched eyes so akin to them. "Reginald."

Image Credit

Nymeria Posts: 182
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.0
Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 3 years HP: 69.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Lilómiel :: Plain Black Dragon :: Fire Breath Wanderer
#3
Nymeria & Lilómiel
Revolution from dissolution

I know him.

I know him.

There were two shadows on the beach, and now that Nymeria saw them together, their silhouettes cut from the same form and fabric, their twinness snapped into place with strength enough to bruise. She watched them from a distance—her dragon sailing in the wind above—her heart beating quicker than necessary and her lips forming a silent grimace.

Who was she to look at first; who was she to fear more? The man who’d defeated her in battle, or the man who had made her cry as a foal? They both posed an ugly threat (her memories reformed their handsomeness into something monstrous), and she wondered if she should turn away from them altogether before they noticed her, before this de-evolved into a nasty situation.

(Who said it had to be nasty? She’d almost done it there and then with Abraham when he’d whipped her into submission; she must’ve smelled from a mile away in her first heat. Instead, she’d backed away from him.)

No, the nastiness inherent to them was all in their eyes. Abraham's eyes might be blue and green, but they had the same stony deadness as his twin's.

She stood, and she watched. In the end, it was the way her heart beat and how her mouth tasted that made her stalk towards two. Fear would not make her captive to anyone—not to her brother and not to these men.

Nymeria does not put on a pretense of prettiness, nor bravery. Instead she wears her face in a tidy mask that scrupulously covers her emotion. Above, Lilómiel cawed a greeting to the strange dragons, a rolling, submissive welcome (he remembered their fire after all.)

What’re you going to do, Nym?

I don’t know.

It hardly felt right to say hello. It hardly felt right at all to be walking up to them, and she did not often fear a fight (not anymore.) Instead she was thinking back to what she told the Aurelight, how she wanted to defeat Reginald in her own way now that she had aged. (Could she do it? She didn’t think she could take on the two of them, but this was her domain—was there anytime better than the now?)

The sea slithered in tighter to the shore where she skirted it, drawn by her subconscious, hungry for her touch. (Hello, she thought to it. I’ve missed you too.)

There’s a low growl of voices, a Reginald, and she is infringing on their conversation. She doesn’t stop far away; she doesn’t come in too close, either. It is a fitting distance, a conservative—but not fearful—one.

She thinks that they’ll devour her if she shows fear.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says after Abraham, settling her gaze on the first perpetrator of blatant violence in her life. (Her skin is prickling. Lilómiel urges her to go.)  “And you were nowhere to be found.” Red eyes swing back to Abraham; she wonders how the balance would shift were she to throw her chances in with him. Sidle up close to his flank, press her hip against his—would he resist it? Or would he, confused by her forwardness, say nothing? And what would the twin do?

(Did the twin—“Reginald”—want for sex like she knew Abraham had? Could she cause a divide between the two over where her loyalties rested? Or would they fall prey to old sexist notions?)

image credits


Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions


Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#4


Harpy’s eyes spy the ivory-shouldered brute first, and the redemption is quick, hesitant. Brother, Ka’Ora alerts her master, soaring on the mild salted breeze. The glimmer of scales alerts her to the presence of dragons in the air, and she does not know whether or not to stay afloat, or if she is to return to her master’s side. She is not sure if she is to be afraid of the dragon creature.

Reginald notices as well; the pearlescent glint, the unfamiliar gleam of gold. Another one? he wonders, and as the basilisk crests the hill he knows that his bonded was correct in her identification. It is the grand twin, Abraham, his grand body laced as it always is for battle, conquest. Reginald notes how little that body seems to dwarf the Grey-Eye’d; they are so very nearly equals after long last.

He thinks to himself, a wry thought. Abraham reports for my patrols more promptly than I do.

He snorts as he descends from the knoll, sea-sand melting underneath his bulk as he goes to greet his brother (who does not smell of recent sex, this time around.) “Abraham,” he greets with the hoarseness of a serpent’s call, coming upon his wombmate so that he can see those mismatched eyes with greater definition, “and what brings you to the sea on this fine winter’s day?” He would not have asked normally—he would not have cared—and he still does not truly care, not really. But he his happy. It oozes from him, buoying his mood, the spring in his step; he wonders if the girls will be kept a secret from him as well, debates on sharing the news. He is interrupted, of course, before he makes the decision.

It is a woman who does so.

He looks upon the approaching mare (oh yes, she does smell of so much of a mare) and is instantly offended; there is something stretching across her face, a white, ugly blemish that forever ruins whatever beauty she might have on the front side. Unfortunate shrew. It’s a pity, for his quick eyes determine the fine solidness of her form, the careful line of her body, the even, acceptable grey tones of her hide. Oh-- and there he detects a dorsal stripe, a solid black line running perfectly down the middle of a wholesome backside. He has found himself taken with such a marking, ever since that night with Shida; that perfect landing strip, an arrow that beckons and directions. Here, here! Here is where you lay, this is where you go.

I’ve been looking for you, she suddenly says to—Reginald, And you were nowhere to be found.

His brows rise. “Here I am,” he says smoothly, racking his brains and deciding; he has never before seen this mare in his life: her identity eludes him. His head cocks ever so slightly, appraising her, regarding the way her eyes dance to Abraham. Had the brute told her stories of their brotherhood? Is she Abraham’s whore?

“Is this yours? He asks his brother evenly, regarding the harlot with the ugly face, the acceptable hindquarters. It’s okay that it’s difficult to look her in the eye; Abraham hasn’t don’t badly for himself. Reginald gives a slight nod, approving. A fine snatch, she is.



[Reginald's Face]
"talk talk talk"

R E G I N A L D

Walk the razor's edge
Cut into the madness
Question all you trust
Image Credit


@Abraham



--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!

--All force is allowed to be used against this character!



Abraham Posts: 113
Absent Abyss atk: 4.5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.3 hh :: Three years HP: 71 | Buff: NOVICE
Gwyneverre :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath & Brienne :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Frost Breath Time
#5
Throw the bait, catch the shark, bleed the water red
Fifty words for murder and I'm every one of them

The salty air tugged at Abraham's mane and tail, pulling the thick tendrils of hair in a teasing manner. He shifted his gaze briefly to the crashing waves, the cloudy skies making them wine dark. He frowns as he regards the sea, how powerful they are. He is the sea, something dark and deep and unknown. From his depths arise monsters. Gwyneverre is from the bottom of the sea, and she is a fearsome thing. Brienne, from the north, is also from water. They are monsters. He is the sea.

The Leviathan, he had decided, some seasons ago.

Mismatched eyes move again to greet grey. The twin titan descended on him, sand sputtering as his hooves forcefully shoveled their way through. His frown leaves his black lips, though it only returns to neutrality. Abraham is a master of his face, his mask. He wears his own bastardization of the Dauntless' stoicism. Nodding to Reginald, black lips reach out to bite his right cheek--a welcoming, greeting kiss. Like his father before him, Abraham is not fearful of initiating physical contact with those in whom his heart finds delight. Reginald is one of the blessed. Macaria is the other.

"The sea beckons me. My dragons and I hunted, they feasted." Abraham motioned back over his shoulder, where miles down the beach a ravaged, dead body of a unicorn lay. The behemoth had not even caught the stranger's name before commanding his dragons to devour, to fill their hungry bellies. He felt nothing. Turning back to Reginald, he regarded his brother. The scent of the desert equines still clung to his grey pelt, though it was faded some. Had Reginald been spending more time in the wilds? Did he leave the desert to take up his true mantle, at Abraham's side? Was Reginald ready and willing to cast aside his herd affiliations for the sanctity of freedom Abraham had chosen--had thrived off of? He did not question it, no, because their meeting was interrupted.

Twin dragons, white and gold, move toward the black. Gwyneverre's pupils narrow, but Brienne is the one who gives him the call. Her shrill, queenly scream is an acceptance of his submissive nature. The white circled him, and the golden reached out with talons to embrace the black. Should the smaller, weaker boy accept, she would grab his own feet and ascend into the clouds, with the white following. Dance with a queen, but remember your place, her motions insisted. Abraham snorted. He remembered her from the mirrored sands. Together they shared a dance, and she bent herself to him. He lifted his chin, ears flicking at Reginald's question. "She submits to me."

Image Credit


@Nymeria

Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn your kingdom down


pixel by tamme

Nymeria Posts: 182
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.0
Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 3 years HP: 69.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Lilómiel :: Plain Black Dragon :: Fire Breath Wanderer
#6
Nymeria & Lilómiel
Revolution from dissolution

The queen is coming to meet him. Lilómiel's jaws slacken, his red tongue slithering out between ivory teeth to taste the air. His wings shiver, dark primaries spreading to better catch the rolling breeze off the sea—up he goes, tentatively ascending to meet his superior. It is clear through the way his tail hangs low and his lips pull back into a humbling smile that he never would have expected such an honor; and he, in a typical, boyish way, is instantly captivated by her sun-gold scales and her emerald eyes. With painful, glorious ceremony he takes Brienne's hands in his, and then he forgets his bonded (not to mention her fear) in favor for a queen worth dying for.

Nymeria's gaze flicks away from the two stallions to watch the black and gold embrace. Incredulous—and foolish as it is, hurt—she watches them pull away from the earth. There is a bitter taste in her mouth, the envy of a woman scorned; the dragons' companionship shouldn't be a betrayal, but it is. This is when she needs Lilómiel most, when her nerves are shot and she feels as exposed as a rat in a lab, but this is when he decided to take his leave. The only contribution he gives to her now are feelings of absurd glee—and those are not feelings she needs nor wants.

Scarlet eyes (glinting with old wrath) return to Reginald; his brows rise, and she allows one of her own to carve upwards in cruel return. Here I am, he declares to her. I know you're here. Her mouth, relatively soft, hardens at the slither of his appraising eyes and his tilting head; her ears slide back, casual but with a sharp message nonetheless.

Is this yours? There is no doubting his message, or what this refers to. This time it is not Nymeria's ears that go tipping back or her mouth that grows angry but a dark hind leg, raised in warning (I will fucking kick.) Would it be too obvious to say that she is angry? That her heart callouses to the nature of him and him (twins like she and Volterra) and that she instead sees a battle cry on the horizon? She is worn out from her heavy thoughts, her weighted desires—but surely much of that weight would be shed if she were to kick this arrogant shit into pieces. The only problem was the brother. The two (Reginald with eyes like a snake, the other with eyes like a wolf) she didn't—couldn't—trust, and neither did she know if Abraham would stand by or attack.

She submits to me.

Nostrils flare; Nymeria shifts her head, doing an appraisal of her own. Her weight shifts; her weight rocks, entrenching her in the sand. The anger that burns in her chest she lets out in a deep and casual breath, and without outward expression she reaches for a handful of blood—and she pulls, with all her might, attempting to draws the red fluids from the orifices of Abraham's face. (Just his face.)

She didn't belong to her brother. She didn't belong to strangers.

(No. She belonged to herself. Was it that fucking difficult to believe?)

image credits


OOC: Nymeria used this magic on Abraham:
:: [ Magic: WaterxWind (U) | Ability to levitate and control direction of liquids outside or inside of tissue and containers ]
:: [ Restrictions | Effects last for 20 seconds in battle. Symptoms include choking, dizziness, fainting, stomach pain (similar to what having The Bends causes) ]

The two of you have permission to PP any magic used on Nymeria. Please use the regular format of attempted, tried, etc for any physical attacks. c:

@Reginald


Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions


Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#7


He does not move as the behemoth approaches, planting a bite upon the basilisk’s cheek, a kiss of brotherhood. Reginald allows this; he breathes snorts softly in response to his brother’s display of affection, yet he does not reciprocate it, passionless as he is towards these ideals of kinship. Blood runs deep and strong, important, yet the physical nature of the monster resides only with the trysts of the night, the matches of the day, his blood and sweat and muscle reserved for the intimacies of war and sex. Abraham is his wombmate, brother in bloods of all kinds; he feels no need to display this. The truth is apparent.

The sea beckons me. My dragons and I hunted, they feasted.

Grey eyes sweep towards the place his brother indicates, holding witness to a bloated, salt-covered carcass lays in the sea-foam. Reginald’s brows raise. “Ah,” he says, and in his mind he takes note of the passion in his brother’s voice as he speaks of the volatile beauty of the sea, how enamored, connected and close he seems to be with the salt-kissed behemoth of waves and storms. He had not realized the sea held such a pull for Abraham; he keeps tabs on that bite of information, tucking it away for later, just in case.

He is not shocked as Abraham lays his claim upon the mare (whom he would have very nearly forgotten, save for the atrocious white upon her face, making her remarkable) and he nods, once, acknowledging the stake of his brother upon her sex, leaving her be, silencing the effortless lust that had roused on sight of her coupled form. It is only when her hind leg lifts, a bullet cocked in the barrel of a gun—it is then his eyes cut to her, and something warm rises up in him, spilling over in the form of—laughter.
He laughs at her, in her face.

“You’ve pissed her off, it seems!” He chuckles, watching her cute ferocity, her adorable antics—for she is still woman, a claimed woman at that, and he brushes off her fury as nothing more than righteous filly tantrums (indeed, he wonders how much of the filly still resides in her bones). He turns and walks on, and the snicker falls from his lips merrily, delighted by her audacity (what a shame; she would’ve made a fine fuck). “Control her,” he says carelessly, throwing these words back toward his brother as he continues down the beach; he cannot linger, he is on duty. (But oh, how he wishes to linger).




"talk talk talk"

R E G I N A L D

Walk the razor's edge
Cut into the madness
Question all you trust
Image Credit


@Abraham



--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!

--All force is allowed to be used against this character!



Abraham Posts: 113
Absent Abyss atk: 4.5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.3 hh :: Three years HP: 71 | Buff: NOVICE
Gwyneverre :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath & Brienne :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Frost Breath Time
#8
Throw the bait, catch the shark, bleed the water red
Fifty words for murder and I'm every one of them

There was a terrible, terrible mistake in angering a queen.

Abraham's ears flicked down into his thick mane as Nymeria's weird shifted. Her threat was tiny, but it was still a threat and it would not be taken lightly. Reginald's laughter cracks the building tension, and Abraham's lips draw together. His pride is not touched--no, this woman has no claim to his dominance and her fit has no will to touch it. However, her one sign of disobedience flares some bitter thought in his mind. Her cocked heel does not come alone, however, as suddenly within Abraham's head liquid and blood shift darkly. A warm, fuzzy sensation fills his face and his ears pound. He is overcome with the lightheadedness the magic causes, but not without his own assault on the woman. Anger flares and his teeth gnash, and from the ground burst nearly a dozen thorny vines, serpents seeking to trap the woman's legs and hold her hostage.

With the master's rage, the dragons change on a dime. Black fingers are entwined with gold, but the queen stops her ascent. Suddenly the white swoops towards the black--slightly smaller than her, a male--and her jaws open wide. The golden screams her sudden fury, frost crackling in the corners of her jaws. Green and fiery eyes narrow together and the gold fastens her grip on the black. She is massive, stronger and faster and better than the black. Ice spews from her jaws and white fire comes from behind. Brienne shifts her path, wings beating hard to fly straight towards the beach. She will punish him for his master's actions--he will die because of her. The gold intends to drown him in the sea.

Sparks ignite behind Abraham's eyes, his weight bracing as his head returns to normal. He can feel a small trickle of blood forming to run down his right nostril, the sign of a broken blood vessel. Snorting wildly, the Leviathan does not hear his brother's comment--and it is not needed. His thorns are already seeking to grab her, to hold her, and his hooves are already flying toward her. He is quick, as his mother has taught him, in his attempt to scrape solid hooves down the front of her right kneecap. His attack is just a smack, a strong hand to remind this woman of her place beneath him. Even in his anger, his dragons' growing rage blooming in his head and heart, he cannot help but wish to ravage her.

Heat swarms his belly and his mismatched eyes flick to the dragons momentarily, watching the twin soldiers attempt to move the black toward the ocean. "They can rip your soul in two." He mentions darkly, snorting again. Blood spews from his nostril as he does so, hopefully painting her white mark crimson. His desire grows and he steps closer to her, willings his vines to tighten.

Image Credit


@Nymeria

Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn your kingdom down


pixel by tamme

Nymeria Posts: 182
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.0
Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 3 years HP: 69.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Lilómiel :: Plain Black Dragon :: Fire Breath Wanderer
#9
Nymeria & Lilómiel
Revolution from dissolution

Reginald's laughter splits and disintegrates on her ears.

Nymeria cuts her scarlet eyes to him—hostile and discomfited—and her ears lock tighter to her neck. There is a brief (and yet eternal) moment when their gaze is united: his gaze malicious, hers angry—and then his eyes dance away. They crawl across her, like a layer of drunken and unwanted kisses, and she abhors him for his feralness (it only reminds her of her purpose.) And yet more than that... she feels as if she was sinned, as if he can detect her every insecurity and knows exactly where to press. Don't be a fool, she chided. You can take care of yourself.

A humbling shame expands, balloons, beneath her gray skin. At the very center (in her heart) is a kernel of fear.

Control her. An order, a reprimand, a suggestion, maybe both—she doesn't know and can't tell. It doesn't matter anyway. When Reginald turns (never turn your back on an enemy arrogant swine) she decides she will take advantage of it. Her wishes had been granted: she only had to deal with one. There is a glint of smile (a hint of teeth) as she turns towards Abraham; her resolve strengthens.

There is sea salt and dead things in the air and there will also be blood.

Nymeria blinks, black eyelashes curling together as she focuses on the tantalizingly pull and tease of his blood. For a savage and satisfactory moment she can imagine his pain as his ears pound and his thoughts fade into unidentifiable smears; then she lets her magic slip away, allowing a return to equilibrium.

Abraham's teeth clench, a glorious grinding that lightens the burden of her fear. A faint smile quirks her lips; then the ground erupts around her. Vines spurt up rapaciously, lined with thorns like rows of teeth. They curl, entwine, nibble at her legs; she jerks back, but they grow so swiftly and hungrily she cannot escape. Instead they sink deeper into her skin, worrying at thin flesh and fragile bone.

No—Lilómiel screeches as the gold's hands twist tighter around his. His fear (how shallow a word it is to describe his roiling, thrashing emotion) washes over her in a relentless tide. The wolf closes her eyes; sand falls away and she is in the sky, surrounded by a flurry of gold and white wings. The black's jaws snake open as Brienne flames (ices?), a retaliatory burst of flame. Ice and fire meet in a hissing collision. With a massive jerk and a flailing of his sinewy black wings, the drake yanks himself away from the python's flexing coils. Down, down he dives—fire following him, licking at his tail. Agony sears through the bond; Nymeria shrieks, pulling at her chains, terror obliterating fear. Instinct takes over.

Water roars up from the ocean, formed like a massive dragon (summoned once before in the midst of a storm) which engulfs the black in a shell, setting him sizzling and steaming but putting out the flames. Come back, Nymeria calls to him, but Lilómiel banks away from the shore, restless, frustrated, furious at Brienne and Gwyneverre's blockade.

The water dragon dissipates into the sea.

Pain crackles up her foreleg as Abraham reprimands her; Nymeria snarls. Blood, hot and wet, slashes across her forehead in a red splatter. For a pitiful moment snappy retorts jostle for position at the tip of her tongue: she holds them in check. They can rip your soul in two.

"Not 'they'," she spits. "You."

The ocean waves slap against the shore. There are no seagulls in the sky. The vines twist tighter.

"You don't fucking own me."

image credits


Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions


Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#10


Her rage is unbridled in his eyes, for only a moment—and it excites him.
He does not care for it, truly, and yet there is a thrill that lingers even as he walks away, something in his mind tainted with that fury of hers dancing in her eyes. In that instant, after an entire lifetime (yet he does not know it), she has become remarkable to him. He will certainly remember her, next time.

Ka’Ora senses the shift of the mood through her bond with master. A streak of danger enters their meeting, and while it thrills the Basilisk, it instead bestows a sense of anxiety upon the harpy. She dives, and great wings beat in an even, learned measure as she lands upon her master’s wither, her customary position. Ka’Ora’s weight causes the Basilisk to turn around, just as a battle begins to form behind him.

Just as he scents the blood dripping from his brother’s nostril.

Something excited, obscene, bursts in his mind—and, surprisingly, Ka’Mate also dives down from the skies, his heart pounding with exhilaration at the aerial display of savage scales dancing through the air. He lands upon Reginald’s back as well, a position he rarely takes—and yet it feels so right to be here, to observe two skirmishes at once, and a harpy’s heartbeat races with his indecent enthusiasm for it all.

It does not matter to Ka’Mate that it is his master’s brother who is being accosted by a common whore; such a subtext is lost upon a savage, primal, primitive mind such as Ka’Mate’s. Even in that moment his mind buzzes wordlessly with pure animalistic pleasure, for there is blood there is blood there is blood there is blood there is blood—

Reginald watches. There is a struggle of wills here, of magic thrown about, of dragons flying through the air, vicious and cruel, spewing the elements from their breaths as they fight in the honor of their liege lords. Abraham bleeds; Reginald is surprised that she has made first blood. And yet it does no good for her, for she is ensnared by his brutish brother, and her dragon will surely be killed by dragonesses that heed to his brother’s will. And still she spits her venomous words. It seems as though she is helpless against the need to throw impertinent insults. So much a mare, so purely, plainly a filly at heart.

Ka’Ora is poised to attack at the slightest command, to aid and abet her master’s kin; Ka’Mate stands with wings half-stretched, lewdly panting, fire-eyes dancing wild and ready to leap into the fray. They are brother and sister cocked and loaded--waiting for the trigger to pull.

Reginald does nothing.

He watches.

Abraham had said that she submitted to him. Well, then. It is Abraham’s ploy now to keep her locked in her place, a space she evidently did not leap into by choice. He does not care for the harlot’s wellbeing either way—if she bends her knee to the Leviathan, or Abraham ends up killing her in frustration (oh, how Reginald knows that feeling well). But he will not stand in to his brother’s side, in an altercation that has nothing to do with himself. This is a battle between their wills, a clash between master and slave, superior to inferior—and Reginald is simply here to patrol. He will not tarnish Abraham’s pride by lending him in a false victory. He will allow Abraham his chance at conquest.
(But, oh, how he wish it were him.)




"talk talk talk"

R E G I N A L D

Walk the razor's edge
Cut into the madness
Question all you trust
Image Credit


@Abraham



--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!

--All force is allowed to be used against this character!




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