the Rift


Midnight City

Misael Posts: 97
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 HH :: 7 years HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE
Lazarus :: Melanistic Lion :: None ShadowMare
#1



He had traveled across quite the obstacle littered journey, his life a sick game of treasure hunts and calculated traps. He was born a normal child (well he didn't even know if that was true) everything known to him stolen by the hand of the reaper, his innocence taken from him in seconds. He was left a young child bare, raw, vulnerable, and completely susceptible to the forces of nature, to the forces of the world. The man who had done this didn't even have the decency to put him out of his misery, but instead he took everything away from Miseal and forced him to continue to live under such hopelessness, such despair. If one had never felt the utter disorientation of not knowing who you once were, who you once had been, where you came from, and who to fear, whom to love, they should consider themselves blessed. For Miseal had felt it first hand, and the side effects of this disease of the lost, well it was catastrophic.

Somehow though, the beast had risen from the very of ash of his breaking moments. Miseal had been placed in a wicked cycle of rebirth and death, a twisted, evil metaphor. He knew though, that the chromed, the capable, could not be of such name if he had not prevailed, won against all odds. That was who he was now; the striped stallion wasn't touched by the weakening abilities of the elements, of the demons that haunted so many. He would not allow himself to fall into the statistics of the shattered souls and percentages of those who had lost the war, who had given up. Miseal had won, will win, and he won't stop, ever. His life wasn't his own to give up on anymore, his impact had touched others, his love had extended to others, and he owed them that at least. He would not only fight for himself, win for himself, he would fight any war waged upon him and upon those he loved, for family. Family meant something to Miseal, and that something was not taking lightly.

So the chromed found himself once again upon the battlefield of the throat. This was a different type of battle though, for his last spar had been one meant to get his name out there, to place a certain power behind the name of Miseal. He had proven to himself that he was capable, beating the moose man upon the soil of his sandy home. Home, another important aspect that had grown into that category of meaning something to the stallion, when so little did. The Dragon's throat had taken him in, had shown him the concept of family that he hadn't known until he witnessed it in the desert dunes and days. The concept that he so wholly, so purely, wanted to replicate within the borders of his own personal family, but Miseal couldn't do that, not just yet. Not until he could return to those he loved, knowing he deserved their love, deserved the family they allowed him to become apart of. Not until he had earned everything he obtained and cherished.

That was why he found himself here again, the crisp frostfall air tickling his nostrils as the moon shined her story upon the battlefield. Soon though, Miseal would join her storytelling with a second story of his own, and he hoped it would be one of victory. There was a determination that encompassed him as his golden eyes analyzed the chilly night; this determination was a different breed. It wasn't one of bloodlust (yet) but rather a maddening drive to win, because this time around, he wasn't winning for bragging rights. He was winning for the ultimate trophy, and that was family. He waited for one to appear, a molten fire burning through his veins as determination ran hot and wild, ready to be molded and shaped into triumph.


"Talk"

WC: 655
Attack: 0/3
Damage Tracker:
Setting: Dragon's throat, just outside of the borders. It's on sand and slightly chilly as well as windy. The moon and stars are pretty bright, but the overall setting is semi-dark.
MISAEL

@Cera

Cera the Golden Prince Posts: 419
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.3hh :: 6 Years HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Ilaria :: Red Panda :: Heal Brit
#2
Cera
the Golden Prince

He had fled from Cirrus and her biting, stinging blows with panicked excuses and demons in his eyes. Cera was never the type to disregard societal conventions, preferred to linger and draw out the union of minds like molasses dripping off his lips. He couldn’t. He had stared into her old, nostalgically familiar eyes, and all he saw was a cracked and vacant smile staring back at him. Peering from the depths of his nightmares, a reminder of a blood bath that had stained his skin - out, out damned spot! - and he had never been able to wash it away. And so maybe he copes by refusing to grow up, by turning his face faithfully to the sun if only to keep from having to face the ever-growing length of his blackened shadow behind him.
 
Once upon a time he had vowed to Midas - Father, Father, why can’t I ever call you Father in my head anymore? - that he would be a fighter. That he would follow gilded footsteps to a mantle he’d been born to fill. No, not born, you were never his blood. You were never anything more than a project, an outsider gazing pitifully through the window. His breaths are going shallow and Ilaria is a dim, buzzing voice that he can’t quite discern, doesn’t care to. Cera hadn’t anticipated such a reaction from something so…friendly, so simplistic. An exchange of cheerful blows for the sake of growth. He hadn’t expected it, because it had taken him so long to admit to himself that he needed to be more than a forger. Now here he was, wings aching with how hard he beats them against the wind whistling in his ears to drown out the maniacal cackling of a dead foe. Dead, you’re dead, I killed you! And the darkness he wouldn’t accept in himself laughs, the twisted copycat that had never surfaced in Helovia and yet seemed to have been born when Cera had killed his father’s. Yes, you did Cera. You killed him.
 
There is a figure standing across the strip of water where the land bridge once stood.
 
It’s such a random notion that it breaks through Cera’s frantic thoughts, and the Prince folds his wings carelessly, letting his pathetically slim weight cast him from the sky like Icarus falling disgraced back down to earth. Ilaria is screaming in his head, clinging tightly to the knotted and braided base of his mane, but he can’t hear her past the voices in his head and the pounding of blood in his ears. He hits the shore hard, freezing water splashing against his heaving belly, and it shocks him momentarily from the storm of his thoughts. Wild green eyes center upon the stallion – friend, not foe, but he was looking for one, now wasn’t he? So Cera would give him one. The Golden Prince strides harshly across the sands, locking his jaw. Ilaria throws herself from his back to the sands, but Cera doesn’t register her departure, too focused on his opponent’s stance. There was no mistaking his desires, and even if he did…well, Cera would find an excuse for his infraction later if need be.
 
He needed this. He needed to drown the voices, he needed to know he could beat this. I’m not a colt. I can fight without losing myself. I can. Cera didn’t care that he’d just failed against Cirrus, it wouldn’t happen this time. It couldn’t.
 
Cera had lived too long as a boy, he couldn’t afford to any longer.
 
Fiercely Cera surveys his opponent, the odd colors striking beneath the moon, a technicolor target. His wings ache, a reminder of his advantage and dominance over this unknown herd-brother. Stalking pace never slows even as his delicate limbs sink into the sand, and he is thankful for Ilaria always braiding his hair, allowing a clear view of his target in this biting wind.
 
“I accept,” is all he says, voice like a whip cracking through the silence between them. He sprints forward, trying to force his mind blank as he approaches swiftly. Wide wings, glowing white beneath the moon, shake out and surge down to lift him higher as he kicks hard into the sky to try and make up the height difference. Cera aims his hooves towards the thick bulge of muscular right shoulder as he crests the leap, tucking his wings in tight as soon as he achieves liftoff, hoping to bring the entirety of his weight down to scrape his hooves along the length of the striped stallion’s right foreleg. Disable the limb, make him even slower. If he could just keep this technical, maybe his demons wouldn’t win. 

Words: {785/800}
Attack: {1/3}
IMAGE CREDIT
Please only tag starting posts, spars, and threads collecting dust!

Misael Posts: 97
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 HH :: 7 years HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE
Lazarus :: Melanistic Lion :: None ShadowMare
#3



And shaped and molded it would be.

The beat of wings entered his drums, echoing their appearance through the slice of winds, through the whistle of their strength. He looked to the sky, scanning for the owner of those appendages, the owner of the power and freedom that they offered. Miseal always wanted to soar; he was a soul seeking for freedom--even if it was temporary. There was just something about the aurora of freedom, which lured him. Taunting and beckoning him to let it all go, to forget his responsibilities and live as a gypsy among the lands. He couldn't be scorned for it, everyone wanted freedom, but the difference was that the chromed accepted his desire and knew that he couldn't cave in to the siren's call.

The golden boy landed from the skies and Miseal instantly looked him over. Miseal searched with hungry eyes, seeping into the golden and porcelain skin of the combatant. The low light of the night didn't do Miseal any favors, but he saw enough of the painted stallion that he remembered as Cera. The two had worked together to build Maren's church ages ago, before Miseal had become who he was now, before he was a father and before he was a man.

Cera was shorter then him, and his frame did not carry the bulk of Miseal's own draft lines, but Miseal matched with a pair of wings and a companion. Miseal had never sparred with a companion before, and did not know if Cera would use it to his advantage or not. He also had little experience with wings, but was well aware of their delicacy; the endangerment that would come to him would be from the heights that they could take Cera. Even if he was outmatched, Miseal had a trinket of his own, the jade dragon he had stolen from Outlik curled around his horn. He kept the jade dragon upon his horns for last minute measures, but had no true intent to use it in this "friendly" spar of skill.

If you can keep it so His mind echoed to him, reminding him of times he had lost himself, falling to the hand of the monster that clawed and cried to be released inside of him. How fearful it was, to know that you, the body of you, can be taken over by something you think of as monster, but really truly is you. A certain antlered woman and her fallen child came to mind as he thought about a time he had let the animalistic side of him roam free. Miseal was dangerous and he wouldn't let that loose today, nor tomorrow, or ever, the world did not need another disaster on golden hooves .

He wished the thoughts away that surged forward in these moments of analyzing and silence. He had to focus on the events at hand, plunging into the depths and wells of his mind would do the chromed no good. With a deep breath, he reminded himself why he was here and whom he was fighting for. He let the determination rise up in his bones, his body and mind prepared for the spar that started with an "I accept" and a rush of flying sands into the dark skies.

Cera jumped into the skies, the throat sands swirled and danced underneath his bright white wings. Miseal knew he had to eliminate the further threat of those wings; there was no surprise that Cera would use those first. All too quickly, Cera is upon him, and Miseal shifted to the left, dodging most of the attack, but still managing to feel the weight and pain of Cera's hooves scraping into his skin. A thin line of blood that marked the beginning of battle appeared, but most of his pain centered on the bruising that Cera's hooves had caused.

With a grimace, the workings of his counter-attack started. Miseal spun his body to the left with as much speed as possible, taking care to avoid using his right leg. Initiating the power in his hindquarters, Miseal quickly turned 180 degrees around so that he and Cera would both be facing the same way. The grit of wind-tossed sand stung his lungs, and he could feel the slightest hints of soreness from his spar with Moose, but his determination kept him fast and focused. With his teeth bared, the chromed reached out for Cera's right wing joint, the wing's glow illuminated the night and made it easier to see Miseal’s target. The chromed hoped to latch on and tear at the wing so that the spar would remain earth bound.


"Talk"

WC: 786
Attack: 1/3
Damage Tracker: Cut on right shoulder
Setting: Dragon's throat, just outside of the borders. It's on sand and slightly chilly as well as windy. The moon and stars are pretty bright, but the overall setting is semi-dark.
MISAEL

@Cera

Cera the Golden Prince Posts: 419
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.3hh :: 6 Years HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Ilaria :: Red Panda :: Heal Brit
#4
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Cera
the Golden Prince

There is a child warring inside his head as his body arcs and descends upon Misael, a voice crying in ardent supplication. It cries that war is not his domain, that surely he has seen enough bloodshed on this earth to never want to inflict pain on another person. It reminds him of the past, of peace and love. As Cera's hooves glance off Misael's striped shoulder, he crushes that child within. There is nothing left for him but this, a jack of all trades, a piece on a chessboard to be moved around for the sake of his herd. This is all he has left to conquer, the final piece that will make him important and relevant in the ranks - if he could just defeat this fear. This fear of boundlessness, of snapping and becoming the monster that lurked where the light of Cera's faith could not reach. The darkness that lurked beneath his gentle, patient countenance. Misael was just a faceless foe, a measurement for Cera to place himself against. Nothing personal. 

He lands in a splay of limbs as his hooves glance off Misael's shoulder. A veil of white descends and immediately stings his eyes, forcing him to squint. The slap of the wind and the shroud of darkness keeps Misael from his gaze and his mind works overtime to try and figure out what the hell he's supposed to do now. Legs tense in preparation, fearful and aware of impending retaliation as Cera tries in vain to flick his forelock from his eyes. All he can feel is the sand against his legs from Misael moving, brief glimmering colors of his opponent's hide like snapshots as he tries to pinpoint the dark male's position. He is not skilled or wise, and he knows only that pain will be swift and immediate from all his previous experiences. A punishment for thinking he could do this. So as teeth descend upon him in a flare of noticeable ivory, he freezes, a memory of a glass horn and grinning teeth startling him into stillness like a rabbit. Misael is a giant even against Cera's tall frame, a shadowed beast lunging from the night, and he is a child once again. There is no evasion, no attempt to get away. He has failed. Failed. FAILED. 

Fire burns up his right shoulder as he hears the telltale crunch of bone - no, it's not his shoulder, something is wrong with where the pain is radiating from - and it snaps him from his frozen state with a wounded animal cry. There is no fear to make him hesitate, and instinct takes hold as it did when he was fighting Midas' doppelganger. A last ditch effort to accept his age and bury the child he is. Cera lashes out violently with bared teeth. They seek Misael's right flank just behind his last rib, the soft thin flesh that will give way with ease, too physically short and in too much pain to think through his attack options. The movement yanks his wing and shoulder, a new flame of agony, and Cera retreats just as quickly beneath the crippling blow of it. 

The pain won't stop. It burns, and he wrenches away regardless of how his teeth land, eyes rolling in the darkness as he tries to figure out what has happened. Cera forces his limbs through the sand to the left and away from Misael, trying to get distance to figure out why his entire shoulder - not shoulder what is it it can't be - is on fire. Why his wing is curled limp and injured at his side. Eyes glance down wildly as he dances away, stumbling more than graceful, and there is blood there. Spotting the brilliant white. He can't move it - broken, his brain supplies. Cera has never been flightless. Never felt this tunneling fear before, of having no escape. He panics. 

With a terrible cry he spins in the sand, digging deep to try and find traction. He prays Misael has followed him to continue the fight, but he doesn't stop to check. The panic is overwhelming, a stifling fear that tells him he needs to end this now. A downed bird is a dead bird. 

Cera's no muscular beast like Misael, he could easily be toppled if the stallion so much as charges into his attack, but Cera doesn't know this. Kicks his hind heels to the laughing moon and hopes to find flesh or ward off retaliation with the sting of his bucking legs. Somewhere Ilaria's trying to gather his attention, tell him they are brothers of the sand, that his wing's not lost forever, but he can't hear it past the pounding of blood in his ears. Broken wing. Broken wing. A downed bird is a dead bird.

Words: 800/800
Attack: 2/3
IMAGE CREDIT
Please only tag starting posts, spars, and threads collecting dust!

Misael Posts: 97
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 HH :: 7 years HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE
Lazarus :: Melanistic Lion :: None ShadowMare
#5



Metallic. Bitter. The taste of his own attack hit him all too hard, the tangy reminisce of Miseal’s desire to keep Cera grounded stuck to his tongue like glue. He could feel the blood’s tendrils crawl down his throat, haunting and morbid. He let go of the wing instantly, spitting out the disgusting taste and the memories of blood that dared to rise with it. Not now, not now. He cried out, praying for distraction, knowing that the deep rooted ghosts of his past enjoyed to play when he was most vulnerable. Shaking away those thoughts of them, (who are they? Why was he suddenly scared of blood?) Miseal realized that he did not know the life at which wings could bring a Pegasus; he only knew that he was horned and Cera held an advantage over him that Miseal could not dare to allow. He understood now, perhaps his worst flaw of all; Miseal could not control the ferocious, dangerous need for victory, could not make a line between spar and battle. All he knew was, there was a fury of fire within him, his inner beast roamed unshackled, and his family awaited at the doors of victory. This was for them, he could not lose to the winged, even if he was a fellow, Miseal needed this.

His shoulder was in agony, but as the fire within him grew back to its treacherous heights, the pain dulled as the clockwork of his mind spun to regain the aurora of battle. His golden’s squint hard, searching, awaiting for Cera’s counterattack, the mass of Miseal’s limbs untangling as he attempted to find his balance. His size cost him in defending the clip upon his skin, a grunt releasing from his mouth as Cera landed a bite at the sensitive skin of his stifle, it was more of an annoying pain than it was awful, but curse his slowness. A man of Miseal’s height couldn’t have it all, and although he outmatched Cera in a few traits, the winged’s toned and skinner frame won against Miseal’s bulk.

Warmth seeped down his right leg, trailing down his dusty pillar as the bite wound fared its hello. His head whips to a retreating Cera, orbs sharp and attentive as he tries to figure out what the man might be conjuring, his gears prepared for charge by the golden boy's hand. Miseal's brow furrowed for a second, eyes falling upon the crippled wing that lain awkwardly at Cera’s side. Was that all Miseal was good at? Causing pain, harming, destroying that at which others lived on? Maybe he didn't do this spar for Anzanie, for Viserra, for the Throat, perhaps he followed along the lures of the animal that cried within him at times, begging to be released from Miseal’s controlling clutches. Here he was, throwing his mass against others, violently ripping at skin and doing everything he possibly could to destroy. The beast within him was smarter then his own damn mind, tricking him into thinking battle was for betterment when truly, deep down, war was release.

So he raged.

Time had escaped between his clutches and it seemed Cera had already attempted his attack, to Miseal’s luck he had missed it. After all, what was the point of running? Was it not a sign of surrender? Miseal had at least expected some sort of maneuver back to where Miseal had stood a charge even. Surely Cera should have known, even the violent animal inside him stopped at the wave of white.

Wasting no more time, the Chromed’s legs begun to work, tan hooves digging deep into the sands as he put in the most amount of effort into thrusting himself forward. Sore legs cry in misery with each pounding step, the soft and shifting ground of the throat only further placing Miseal in pain. He knows he cannot use his legs with his injuries (to stretch the skin in such a way, how awful) to lift him up or to try anything fancy, so the beast sets his target, bends his crowned head and charged. Oh how Miseal wanted to hit and hit hard. There was no stopping, not now, Miseal was too far gone, sanity slipping through the cracks in his shell, draining away until nothing sane could balance all the was not. Like pistons his legs work, the sand stinging his pelt and eyes as the freight train of a man galloped, the only obstacle to stop him was Cera. Training his body towards Cera, eyes squinting in the dark shroud of night, Miseal shifted his body slightly left, aiming to crash his horn and power into Cera's left hip and side. The only thing he could hear now was the tainted laughter of the devil within. Oh what fun.



"Talk"

WC: 800
Attack: 2/3
Damage Tracker: Cut on right shoulder, bite on right stile
Setting: Dragon's throat, just outside of the borders. It's on sand and slightly chilly as well as windy. The moon and stars are pretty bright, but the overall setting is semi-dark.
MISAEL

@Cera
Please tag in all posts, all force is permitted

[Image: shadowmare098_by_ehrendi-da6sr2s.png]

Jen Posts: 16
OOC Account
Mare :: Other :: 14.3 hh :: 21
Jen
#6
Misael's post was over 3 weeks after the dice roll time stamp. .5 VP to Cera.


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