the Rift


[DROP] Death Rattle [DARK/WIND DROP]

Random Event Posts: 1,286
Helovian Ancient
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
#1


The Deep Forest is particularly quiet today, but for a strange, sinister rattling.

Deep in its heart, away from the red pool so often visited by strangers, the quiet dark has become home to ancient trees.  Bound in poison oak and moss, the monolithic forest rises into a lightless canopy, the ground beneath tangled, and difficult to traverse.  Birdsong has brought to life the flowers which thrive in the shadow, their white, violet, and red petals stark against the emerald and black world.  As is common in this wood, it’s nearly impossible to tell night from day, but the occasional glimpses of the sky above allude to it likely being dark outside the Forest, as well as within.

More obvious than the flowers, a particularly large tree towers in a broad clearing, its trunk marked with the smooth white of bone, which is bound in place, seemingly, by the poison oak itself.  Even here, the roots are treacherous across the loam, with only the smallest patches of earth revealed.  Above, in the tree’s branches, more bones dangle, clicking and clattering against one another, obviously the source of the only sound in this part of the Forest.  

That is, until the song of the bones grows louder, ushered by a wind that is surprisingly cold for this time of the year; as if moved by the sound of the bones above, the roots at the very base of the tree begin to move, parting as if allowing something to rise from below.

Antlers bedecked in feathers and teeth are the first to appear, attached to the bleached skull of an elk.  Sweeping to a man’s shoulders, the torso armless, his back marked by the bony remnants of what might have been a resplendent pair of black wings.  The torso melds with the jet black form of a rotting stallion, the pale white of the beast’s man flesh eerie, and milk-like in comparison.  A strange, shining metal medallion rests against his chest, its heart pulsing with ethereal black light.  Red eyes flicker to life in the dark spaces of the skull, and those red eyes look out across the clearing.

Look out at you.

Come, come, he beckons, his voice like the click clack of the bones above, would you like to play a game?

[ This is a MOON/WIND MAGIC DROP.
Please post a link to your wishlist, and any previously refusals of this type that you may have. If you want to use extra VOTG rolls, please post those as well.

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Kid Posts: 122
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Colt :: Equine :: 15hh :: 3 years HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE
dark
#2
kid
An eerie call summons me from the shadows that I have so hastily gathered around myself, the gloom of early onset depression lingering in wisps along my skin as I move quietly to the origin of my summons. It's nowhere near the territory I linger, a hidden corner where I begin to lose track of time— feeling like I've spent days trekking through the ever so tight quarters beneath the thick canopy of trees. Where had the sun been when I left? Where was it now?

Curious bubblegum eyes are drawn up, squinting at the shreds of light filtered through layers of green leaves and pine. There's so little of it, I can't tell whether it's noon or later in the evening— maybe it's already morning and I've simply been wandering towards my demise for all these hours (I wonder if Mother is worried? Probably not). Blasts of cold winds and various (and particularly timed) intervals give me reason to believe perhaps there is reason for me to have wandered so deep into the hopeless forest, a harmony of bones encouraging me ever closer.

I find it finally, eyes widening at the tree that looms before me, oblivious to its existence until now (seriously, where had it come from?). Bones hang like decoration from the branches, rattling and swaying as the frigid breeze blows past again. Something ominous and macabre enters, chills traveling down my spine as I come to face a chaotic mongrel with dark hide and red eyes. It's rooted to a disgustingly unkempt (is it rotting?) equine body, donning an antlered skull and scarred torso that lacks extremities. It speaks through clattering teeth and rickety joints, eyes pulsating gently as it asks a simple question. Would you like to play a game? In a burst of confidence my lips open, smirk stretching the corners of my mouth as I respond (almost eagerly) to the question at hand. "I'm always up for a good game." What sort of game it is, we'll wait and see.

"Talk."
wishlist, seeking:
darkxwater | his blood causes a heightened sex drive to those who come in contact with it, the potency depends on how much they come in contact with
» effects last only 1 post in battle or 3 posts in a normal thread
the boy king
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made by reli

tag me in everything

Tyrath Posts: 61
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6
Stallion :: Tribrid :: 17.2 :: 2 [birdsong] HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Harcos :: Common Red Dragon :: Fire Breath Nova
#3
Young Dragon's grow like weeds, despite his youthful newness to the world, his body seemed to be making up for his paltry size at birth, spindled legs are solid in their step and his neck has thickened to carry his head nobly. The would be crown upon his head was already beginning to coil and sweep, they promised to crown him magnificently when he came of age. Tyrath had wandered once more from the Throat, absent of his younger brother in the wake of bitterness and distate. His mother has vanished, he has come to accept, and it is bitter bile to swallow and taste on his young tongue. He accepted when he met his father, that there would be no sweetness that some of the younger foals know, and he had been fine. He did not need soothing words to pour from his father's mouth, his father was a Stallion made to conquer and rule, not play nanny to his budding line of Heirs.

His mother however, he had hoped she would be much more present. The Dragon boy had little time to be nannied by carers and adoptive mothers when he wanted his own to teach him, impart her wisdom on him so he may develop more than he has already. Volterra's words and stature right now is the only alter that stands in the young colts mind, the flickering flames which highlighted his stone face the shape of fiercesome dragons which screamed strength and power. The pedastal to the right of him is dark, ashen and crumbled, the defined features of Aithniel's face chipped and cracked with her abscence. Her alter would perish soon, Tyrath knew with a bitter heart, if she does not come back soon. The question was, would she pull it down herself or would her first born son pull it down with his own hooves and horns?

Tyrath had wandered until the forest grew dark, the bony branches reaching toward the ground like ensnaring tendrils which would trip or drag him beneath the earth should he trip. He defied them, sweeping over their gnarled roots with stubborn steps, ears pressed against his skull and wings tucked tightly against his ashen sides. He didn't like the closeness of the canopy above, the blotchy patches of natural light which peppered the ground a grim mockery of freedom he wasn't allowed to have, even if he could spread his wings and fly. Still, the darkness comforted him in a way he didn't quite understand, unending pools of crimson looking into the expanse as the bone white of his face bathed in the little light which blessed him. A wraith among the dead forest, the lingering breath of long dead fire, he moved silently on cloven hooves. Hoping, somewhere, that he might find something worth paying attention too. Perhaps the giantess lurked these wicked woods, or maybe this was his fathers lair, he couldn't say, but either would be welcome company.
The silence was broken, and young mind was brought to the present by the clinking chimes of bones upon the breeze. An unnatural force, beckoning the young boy forward with a musical map. There was little else to do but to follow, and so Tyrath urged himself into a light trot to bring him to where the sound had been birthed from. He wasn't disappointed, at least, when he finally entered the bone white clearing. There was another already here, no doubt brought forth by the undead creature who stood at the mouth of oblivion, some unholy place where the dead might walk or hoard their treasure. Unyielding pits of red light stare at his churning pits of blood and he dares not look away as it whispered it's intent.

A game.


"What game would you have us play?" He replied with a hint of a smirk, bone marked head tilted to the side. He was good at games, wasn't he? And the soulless creature in front of him looked like the type of Game Master to have grim and enthralling games at his disposal. "What are the stakes?" Games often had consequences or an ending, didn't they? He wouldn't put it past the living dead to have the most damning rules of all.

SEEKING:
[Earth x Dark :: active] :: able to transform into a Gold Dragon.
→ [upgrade] :: can now use Fire Breath while in Dragon form.
[Lasts one post in battle. Transformation is painful.]

WISHLIST
no prior refusals

talk talk talk

Tyrath
If Chaos Drives
Let Suffering Hold The Reins

image | coding
[Image: tyrath_by_bronzehalo_d9yw5wg_by_arahvir-d9yx9ov.png]

Tiamat the Ocean's Light Posts: 360
Aurora Basin Lady atk: 8 | def: 10 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: 6 years HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Nimue :: Common Orca Leviathan :: Boil Reli
#4
tiamat
Cloven hooves step daintily between the trees, mindful of the gnarled roots and messy underbrush, careful not to scuff the dry, black bark. Her ears stand erect on her crown, twisting occasionally in search of a sound—anything other than her own hoof beats and soft breaths—though the Dark Forest continues in its heavy silence. Perhaps surprisingly so, this shadowy atmosphere does not frighten the ocean mare. Maybe her heart is too sheltered to imagine the monsters that might lurk in a darkness such as this, but being surrounded by the presence of nature (her family) gives her a (foolish?) sense of security, of togetherness.

Sapphire nostrils curl as she releases a slow exhale, pausing in her step to press her velvet muzzle against the rough trunk of a tree. Somehow, she sees beauty in this. In the way the shadows dance, in the way the scarce few shafts of light fall, in the way that the forest seems to go on forever—ever twisting, winding, and changing. Drawing away, she saunters forward again, the long hair of her lion tail brushing against the thicket of leaves and moss. Nature falls quietly behind her, settling back into shadowy cocoons and hiding any evidence of her path.

From around the mare’s neck, the glowing charm of her necklace illuminates her features, highlighting the delicate lines in a soft halo of green. Absentmindedly, her neck arches to occasionally brush the small light with her muzzle. Gifted to her from that kind, reverent turtle, Tiamat calls upon the charm for good thoughts and surety, allowing it to remind her that there is always kindness in the world. There is always hope, always goodness

always goodness

—even in the face of death.

Stumbling suddenly upon the gnarled, bone-bleached oak tree, the blue mare is frozen to a halt. For the first time tonight, she feels the cold prickle of fear along her spine. Doe-eyes are wide, cloven hooves seemingly rooted where she stands, taking in the ghoulish beast that stands before her (and the longer she stares, the colder she feels). “A game?” Tiamat whispers with a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Though every instinct screams at her to run, the ocean mare stays (why, exactly? Perhaps because she wants to believe in the goodness, or perhaps there is something—something—about this rotting beast that bids her to stay).

Shifting her weight, the blue mare draws her legs in closer to her body, standing more comfortably at the fringe of the knotted, bleached roots. Vaguely she notices the two macabre-marked colts not far from her side, even manages a gentle grin of greeting, but she finds that her attention is swallowed by the monstrosity of a man. Looking into his pitted, red eyes, she cannot fight the shiver of her spine—and flicking her leonine tail behind her, she reminds herself of the kindness, the goodness, the hope


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Speech.”
Seeking: [Magic: EarthxWind (U) | Pockets of water may be used to heal/soothe minor injuries.]
(An upgrade for
:: [ Magic: EarthxWind | The ability to draw moisture from the clouds, water, and sky to create floating pockets of water that she can move at will. ]
:: [ Restrictions | Can create up to three small, or one large, floating pockets of water and exist in 5m radius from body. ])

Wishlist
First Refusal | Second Refusal
dreaming the day away!
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please tag Tia in all replies!
magic & force are permitted.

Oizys Posts: 134
Aurora Basin Soldier atk: 7.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Mare :: Hybrid :: 17hh :: 2 HP: 73.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Ker :: Philippine Eagle :: Curse Snow
#5


She has thought often about her....misfortune.

Her multiple misfortunes, rather. One, to be born with the Thing, her stupid arse-face of a heart and all the weaknesses to have come thereof. Two, to have been almost slaughtered the second she fled the womb, before she even had chance to open her cold grey eyes and examine the world around her. Three, to have been born with absolutely nothing - no magic, no mutations, when both of those things are as common as fucking horse shit in this place. Mother has magic, Father has not one but two harpy companions, and yet Oizys was born with the square root of fuck all.

And four, to miss out on the spark of power last time she came to a gathering like this - the spark that could have solved problem number three, her lack of magic. It is almost like something is out to get her, some malevolent God seeking to manipulate her life and ensure she has nothing come to her easily.

But in her twisted little mind, the gargoyle knows why all of these things have happened to her. Because the world is scared. Scared of what she could become - why else would she be cursed in the womb, condemned to no powers but those of her muscles and hooves and teeth, when every man and his god damned dog is born with some talent or other? What else could have driven her own father to try and take her fledgling young life?

Well, she lifted a decisive middle finger to whatever cruel hand of fate is guiding her existence when she obtained Ker, who is now quite large and quite frightening. She fully intends to do so again, and this gathering seems like an opportunity too good to pass up. The witch itches for power the likes of which other Helovians wield with ease, and her greed drives her through the forest at a steady trot.

There is already a flock of others, including Kid, who she studiously ignores (now would not be a good time for her Weakness, her empathy, to flare up, as it seems determined to do in his presence) on her path to the front. She sees the creature they're looking at, a hideous rotting thing that is at best rather disgusting, at worst absolutely bloody foul. Ker shudders and hides her head beneath her wing, as though the Thing is too vile for her regal gaze to fall upon. But if it can give power, then who gives a damn if it's pretty or not? Oizys is no oil painting herself, with her gruesomely scarred face and general air of menace.

The filly edges closer, scrutinising the creature with interest. "A game?" There's a hint of mocking around the words, adding her own little flavour to the end of it; "Fuck, yes." Her jowls bend easily around the words, so grotesque coming from the mouth of one so young.

O I Z Y S
I'M NOT A HERO, I'M A LIAR
I'M NOT A SAVIOUR, I'M A VAMPIRE
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Seeking:

[ Magic: Dark x Spark | Can create lightning creatures that shock when they touch skin. ]
[ Restrictions | Creatures cannot be larger than Oizys herself; can create 1 large or 2 small per battle? ]

wishlist

I'm not sure if this is a refusal, because it was for exactly the same magic but was Spark rather than Dark. I'll throw it here anyway, please discount it if it isn't viable ^_^

[ the gargoyle queen ]
OIZYS IS ALWAYS RATED M FOR STRONG LANGAUGE IN HER POSTS




Milo Posts: 60
Outcast
Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 2 years [Birdsong]
Jen
#6

The dark woods near my homeland are filled with death and children. By some misfortune, I am counted among their ranks on the evening that the monster appears.

When I first find myself near the occurrence I am preoccupied by the sheer effort of motion; never before have I found terrain that is so difficult to cross, and given my condition I am stressed even further. My hindquarters ache as they carry the bulk of my ever-growing weight, and my hooves catch on roots. Always, I am stumbling.

Those that appear before me, all young and grey like myself save for one blue mare that sticks out in the crowd, do not seem to be so tripped up by the natural twists of the earth. I am familiar enough with these woods and darkness' long shadow but not my own body; it is here that the problem lies.

As I grow older I grow into something beautifully crafted but woefully injured. I am like a priceless piece of art with a devastating crack splitting its middle. Does the value decrease, or simply the pleasure of viewing the thing? I'm not certain anymore what part of myself, if any, is to be grieved for and lamented.

Maybe my voice. Because once again magic changes the world, a creature appears from the shadows. First the peddler by the heart, then the salmon at the falls, now this... They all have a dialogue to start and a crowd more than willing to chip in. My tongue, frozen, issues forth no reply. I think back to the grey unicorn that had tried to help me at the last strange event, and do as he advised. In a simple sign of affirmation, I extend my right forehoof and stamp it down. Due to my age I'm larger than all the other foals, and I'm not much smaller than the short mare. It's the death-bringer, the one with the amulet-like adornment, that stands above me.

It's that thing I should be scared of. But I've witnessed enough of these strange occurrences to know that whatever you fear is the most valuable, regardless of the prize.

Will I be feared, one day?



No priors.

Seeking:
[WaterxDark :: Can use moisture from the surroundings to summon waves]
[Restrictions :: Extends 5m radius from body; can create up to three small or one large wave.]

Orithia Posts: 59
Outcast atk: 7.0 | def: 10.0 | dam: 3.0
Mare :: Pegasus :: 16.2hh :: 4 HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Eris
#7
ORITHIA


The forest of shadows and bones had much to whisper about today.

It was not often that the pale maiden felt drawn to the Bone Shrine, but on days like this, with the Dark Mother's beckoning song drifting through the boughs, Orithia had no choice.

It was dim beneath the vast canopy and the lass was loath to admit that the silence brought on by her proximity to the Dark Mother's Tree was unnerving. As the trees thinned in place of ivory roots and hanging bones, Orithia found that she was not the only creature to have responded to the tuneless summons. Pale eyes roving those gathered, the pastel mare allowed a small grin to slide over her lips...

Nights in the Uumalahn deserts were just as merciless as the days, though the moon breathed ice as the sun bellowed fire. They were nestled up together, the child and the nursemaid, the rickety mare whispering tales of old to the babe pressed at her side. Tales of the Dark Mother and her shrines to the Restless Dead - the gates between worlds decorated with bones and teeth.

"On certain days, on cruel days," whispered the ancient mare through the dark, "The Dark Mother's lullaby is heard and one of her children can slip through the cracks in reality. Fear the children of the Lady Death, my child, they know twists and tricks to trap you beneath the weight of this world - to trade you as a means to their ends."

A gasp and a giggle, dull teeth pulling gently at a child's forelock, shushes and coos.

"Don't worry, my sweet, the Dark Mother only calls to those who have known death..."

If only that lovely old nursemaid had known that the Dark Mother had been calling to Orithia since the night she fled her desert home caked in the blood of others.

And now here she stood, a fool amidst fools.

The creature stood lengths above their heads, eyes aglow with the flush of dried blood and the stink of gravedust. It's voice was the creak of a crypt door, the distorted buzz of a thousand flies, the sifting of dirt upon a casket.

"Come, come, would you like to play a game?"

The inquiries of others were drowned out as she gazed into the depthless glowing eyes of that bleached skull, grin curling at the edges like smoldering parchment. Oh, to feel the breath of the dead scraping against her skin, to know the blessings of the Dark Mother rested upon those heavy, rotted shoulders.

What game would she not play for that same blessing?

She eyed the smooth trunk and swaying bones, the rotting dead and the smoking fissure in it's wake. A step, two, three, she was beside other equines and before the towering beast, the air growing colder the closer she came to the Restless Dead.

"What better stakes for a game than one's own blood?"






[Magic: DarkxEarth (P) | Blood turns to garnets when it leaves body.]
NO PRIOR REFUSALS

um ok ori
[Image: ypCJIiV.png]
Honestly, kick her ass at any time. Seriously.
Any and all aggressive and non-aggressive contact permitted.
Please no permanent injury or death. We'll get to that part at some point.
xoxo

Astarot Posts: 81
Dragon's Throat Sun Physician atk: 5.5 | def: 9.0 | dam: 5.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17.1 :: 2 (Birdsong) HP: 66.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Zafír :: Common Blue Dragon :: Frost Breath Pare
#8
Astarot
He had wondered west today wondering what Helovia held this way. he pranced proudly as he moved through the thickening trees. He felt no fear, stupid not to feel that, as he moved into the darker shadows. He felt at him in the dark, even if his light dun coat and white bone markings made him stand out. Lost in his thoughts about what they day might hold he missed the cold breeze and the starting of the bone sounds.

"What the?" He whispered confused as the sound grew loud enough to catch his absent mind. Ears prick up curiously as the scent of others drifts on the wind. 'Why is Tyrath and Kid here?' he wondered silently as he picked up the pace cantering carefully around the trees. The trees open up to a small clearing where the fucking tree roots are moving. Fear grips his young heart and he freezes to scared to move. Something, something evil, starts to rise form the ground. His hide quivers and sweat slowly rises as his throat goes dry. He wants to turn and run, get back to the safety of his mother, but he can see Ty and Kid standing in a small group and they aren't running for home.

He slides his tongue between his teeth and bites down using the pain to get his body moving. The taste of cooper and iron is new and... satisfying. He almost losses his track of thought so caught up in the thick taste. Until he sees the antlers covered in feathers and teeth rising form the ground. He moves into over time shoving his way through the crowd to his brother. He pulls up next to Ty and tries to press his slightly damp hide against his finally realizing the thing is all the way out of the ground. He gulps as bi colored eyes look up at the horrible creature. Repulsed and fascinated he watches the beast as he speaks of a game. He wants to know what the game is before he agrees to play, but he has a feeling the creature would not give away that information so easily. Instead he stands beside his winged and horned brother feeding off of his strength.
-------------------------------
Talk
Words;; 374
OOC/Tags;; @Tyrath
Seeking an upgrade to his magic: :: [ Magic: DarkxEarth ]:: Can shift into a blue dragon or a Blue Jay always keeps his eye color
    -- Restrictions :: Can only transform once in battle
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- table by Niki -

Syrena Posts: 207
Dragon's Throat Forger
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16.1 hh :: 7 years
Thelxiepeia :: Royal Rougarou :: Water Kyra
#9
Syrena
let the water take me
It is only by sheer luck that Syrena is here today. Not fate. She doesn’t believe in that nonsense. It wasn’t fate that brought her to Helovia, only misfortune, one wrong step. There wasn’t some greater purpose to stripping her powers and making her start over again, miserable and furious. Fate’s just a word parents tell their children; a word they use to make little ones feel better when it all goes to hell. “It was meant to be, honey.” Bull. It just happened. Why? Because shit happens.

Today, she happens to be in the Deep Forest, too damn far away from the sea for any level of comfort and trying to get out, when the rattling catches her attention. She follows the sound until she finds the tree, the trunk wearing bone instead of bark (or perhaps simply on top of the bark, but in the pitch of night, it looks rather like bones growing from the ground).

She knows that the ominous and the strange in Helovia often comes with gifts, and she needs gifts. Powers, particularly, but she’ll take just about anything. It is better than nothing, and better than the small source of power she’s managed to obtain so far. She’d been everything once, and now she fought just to be a tiny scrap of something.

So she goes to the tree, her feet unpracticed and ungraceful on the treacherous, rooted earth. It’s dark enough she hopes no one notices, and she keeps tripping along until the bones in the braches – ah, the rattling makes sense now – come into view above her head.

And then it all changes. Hell. Of course it does. The winds bites at her seal-like flesh, the rattling drowns out any hope of other sounds, and the earth moves her feet. Syrena scrambles, trying to keep her footing as the roots twist around her, though her eyes stay on the base of the tree. The roots part here, letting something through, and she almost wonders if it’s worth staying to find out. Almost.

It’s worth it. She will not be nothing. And she will not cower in fear.

There’s no word that comes to mind for the creature before her. It’s simply is - a creature pieced together from the chopped bits of a variety of different animals. Both grotesque and fascinating (a slight pang of jealousy, because though it is not beautiful, it is memorable, and that is something).

She comes, like a puppy dog, that realization grinding her to a halt. But she’s already there, anyway, already answering his question. “Sure.” And like always, her voice betrays nothing. Deadpan and uninterested. But the creature probably sees through that voice. She wants whatever is on the side of this game.

"words"

darya87 | larfsalot
on deviantart


No prior refusals
Wishlist
Seeking
:: [Magic: dark x water | Can create water illusions that create the sensation of dehydration or drowning]
:: [Restrictions | Causes shortness of breath, dizziness, and confusion in battle, and lasts 10 seconds]

Please tag in all posts
Magic use/power playing is okay, but check before serious injury/death
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Lyanna the Windswept Posts: 313
World's Edge Queen atk: 7 | def: 11 | dam: 4.0
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.2 :: 5 years HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Kyra
#10

i am a leaf on the wind

She is often here, and not often in the Edge. That should change. That needs to change. But still, she does not go home. Still, she wanders the Deep Forest. Some might find the darkness oppressive, the tangled roots beneath their feet daunting, the dense trees claustrophobic. But not her. To her, the darkness is a blanket; the roots a hand on her shoulder, reminding her to slow down and enjoy; the trees a hundred friends. Here, she can pretend that everything is okay. Can pretend that she’s alone simply because there aren’t any others around. Can wonder if the movement in her periphery is a horse, or merely just a deer passing through. 
 
Here, she can pretend her life is not in ruins.
 
So it’s not surprising that’s she’s here when the rattling starts. Not surprising that she’s noticed it’s unusually quiet tonight. At some point, the sun stopped filtering through the trees like little windows to heaven. She doesn’t know when exactly the daylight disappeared, when the night fell. She should go back to the Edge. She does not go back to the Edge. Instead, she follows the rattling.
 
Deeper and deeper into the forest - the trees growing closer, the darkness growing heavier - the farther she goes. It does not feel like the forest she knows tonight, though she’s spent so much time here. And certainly, that clearing, that tree wearing bone, has never been here before. Or has she simply never found this part of the woods before? It’s possible, but unlikely. She shakes her head, white and teal mane a windmill of color in the black air for a moment before settling back down on her neck.
 
She can’t decide if this place has always been here, if this place is real at all, or if it’s just another strange occurrence in Helovia. Like the rat man and his tent (she’s never seen that tent again). She still doesn’t know what all these things mean, what all these events might lead to, but she’s learning that the strange and unusual in Helovia often come with prizes on the other side. So she doesn’t leave.
 
The rattling draws her teal eyes skyward, greeting her with the sight of bones rattling in the wind. Ah, the wind. Once, she could have silenced the wind, could have silenced the bones (not that she ever wanted to silence the wind, it was too much a part of her, even now with the power stripped away). She falls into the sound, falls into the swaying of the bones. She’s gone so far in the comfort of the wind that she almost doesn’t notice the change in the breeze (too cold and strong for Birdsong), the other horses gathering, or the way the ground moves beneath her. Almost.
 
Her feet move of their own accord, accommodating the roots as they slither through the earth. Half a lifetime spent in forests has given her some skill with traversing roots, though half her attention is pulled to the ground to avoid the moving wood and dirt. Half her attention is on the base of the bone tree, the gleam of antlers catching her eye.
 
Feathers and teeth hang from the antlers, and her eyes follow them down to the skull of an elk creeping out of the earth. Than a middle that belongs to some creature she cannot name, missing something or many things, she isn’t sure. Finally, the rest appears, the rotting hindquarters of a black stallion. She is fascinated, and unafraid. Perhaps she should be, but she doesn’t care what lies at the end of this grotesque adventure.
 
He beckons her forward (all of them, but she swears those eyes are on her alone), and she comes, lithe and agile over the roots that lie in her path. He asks a question she’s starting to expect, and she answers in a quiet but sure voice. “What kind of game?” But it’s a question where the answer doesn’t matter, because it’s clear she’s going to play. What does she have to lose? Death would not be a terrible prize. At least then, she could join her family on the other side. 

watch how i soar.

lyanna



No prior refusals
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Seeking
[Magic: WindxLight | Able to control wind currents to move objects. ]
Restrictions: Limited to moving small objects, winds extend 10m from body.

Please tag in all posts
Magic use/power playing is okay, but check before serious injury/death
Image by Kiki

Aquila Posts: 95
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16.2 :: 6 HP: 62 | Buff: NOVICE
Craonos :: Common Narwhal Leviathan :: Boil smitty
#11
the tempest of an unrelenting sea
Ears perk— her healed body had wandered away from the fresh water pools of the Hidden Falls. Instead, she found herself once again between the thick, dark trees of the forest. Why had she chosen to return to the very place Cem had nearly bested her with his blinding magic? Likely to test herself against the forest once again— to prove that she would not be so vulnerable a second time. That she could protect herself as well above the sea in these solid trees as in the kelp forests of the ocean floor. 

So when the ominous buzzing rattle struck through the trunks and into her scaled ears, her teeth points bare as her lips peel back slightly. The woman is more tense and more on guard than usual. Webbed hooves fall in cautious, rigid steps as her ridges undulate with unease. Though her newly healed face fins are tucked flush against her throat— it would not do to have then partially ripped from her face once again. 

Unblinking, wide eyes arrest on the moving bones suspending in the ivory-trunk tree. The clattering is sinister, but only interest sparks in her too-large eyes. Were these bones won in battle, souvenirs of great winds? Or were they mere collected by one who sought death? At the thought of the first, then the militant mare thrums with thrill. The latter held much less interest for her. 

Her scaled legs arrest, eyes sweeping the sudden appearance of a beast from the roots of the bone-tree. But the woman does not flinch, does not falter. In comparison to the monsters faced in the Rift, such a ghastly creature is almost commonplace to the seahorse. And, instead of attacking and trying to eat her flesh, it asks to play a game.

A sharp snort pushes out her ridged nostrils, unblinking eyes sweeping those already present as she awaits to see what the “game” would be before committing to it. The creature could still turn on them; could suddenly seek their lifeblood rather than their participation in childish antics. 

Her sweeping gaze found two colts marked by bones, and two mares who smelled of the sea— but all others were swept aside when her bright eyes found a familiar, grey form. Sweeping strides bring her near the growing, silent colt, “Stay by me, Kahelo,” her low growl was not patronizing or protective, merely commanding. 


Seeking [Magic: WaterxDark | Neurotoxin in tail barbs that injects when barbed into tissue.]
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Kitty Posts: 10
Up For Adoption atk: 5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 6.0
Stallion :: Equine :: 17.3 hh :: 7 HP: 62.0 | Buff: NOVICE
Adoptable
#12
K itty

You despise these woods. The canopy's too thick to look down on Kitty and trace the beauty of his faint dorsal stripe; the roots are too much of a tangle mess to follow him on fast feet. Despite the impinging dark he makes it through these woods easily. He's graceful, he has a sense of direction that's attuned to every distinct facet of the wilderness. You're more blind than a bat in broad daylight and more desperate than one in the snow. Every breath is labored as you fight to keep up with him and keep him in your line of sight. You won't let him get lost in these woods.

And it's frightening here, too, but Kitty of course isn't scared. Is it that he's seen worse than this or that he just doesn't care enough to fear for his safety? You know he doesn't have a death wish, you know that his life hasn't been particularly haunted up to this point, so why doesn't he tremble when the rattling of bones is the only sound that can be heard? Why doesn't his coat wick with sweat, why don't his strong legs begin to quake? Some sort of monster is rising from the womb of a tree and he stands stoic, dark and blending with the surrounding woods rather than cutting through the crowd.

You really wish, if only to make yourself less of a coward by contrast, that he'd be a little bit scared. But it's Kitty's love of gambling that lets him step forward on powerful limbs to face death incarnate. A game? Of course, you should have known.

Kitty loves playing games.

"Count me in," he says, his voice silky and loud, louder than the others'. He doesn't even give them a second glance, doesn't seem concerned that his competition appears to mainly be children, a sea-fish, and a freshly harvested drop of ocean water. He and the gambler, the host of the game, are all that matter. He tilts his precious head back and his long, silken mane falls over his neck like beauty in previous waves.

You want to comb through those dark locks and whisper luck into his ears. But Kitty doesn't need luck.



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Random Event Posts: 1,286
Helovian Ancient
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
#13


When the strangers come, the peculiar undead creature is not surprised. That many of them are children is more a matter of delight than surprise, as well. Those who do not know better swiftly flock to anything outside their normal realm of experience, and he does particularly enjoy a game with someone who is still good at them.

His eternal grin moves from one to the other as they come, some speaking to him, some among themselves. The crimson lights pulsating within black sockets, though he does not answer their questions, or note their interest with more than a passing glance. That the glance seems to pierce through to the soul is all that makes it special in any way, unless one counts the rest of the person doing the glancing.

Only one says nothing, as the horse-creatures mill before him. The amalgamation of bodies looks at this one the longest, and last. It was hard, however, to look away from the one who offered her blood in ante, the woman who shined white like the light of his Mistress, and Master. Her windy fingers run against him, carry his fetid stench towards the gamers.

The air is brushed with that strange chill again when he speaks. Around the tree, the bones and vines of emerald oak begin to shift, the vines snaking out around the statue stillness of the monster, still curled tightly about the smooth white of their precious bones. As he speaks, they reach out towards each of the strangers gathered, and the amulet against his milky, wretched chest glows and dims, almost rhythmically.

All these were not once bones, at their mention, once-invisible runes along the lengths and curves of the various skeletal parts burst into stark, moonlit life, all these once lived, like you, like... me, once.

What can you tell me of my friends? Their bodies, their hearts, the winding way of their roots? One at a time now, do not rush.

The star light bedazzled items stop before the horses, unicorns, pegasi, and… fish. One for each person, the vines bobbing their burdens almost tauntingly, as if to disallow you to look closely at the item the undead creature of the tree has asked you to inspect.

We will be very pleased if you know.

  • Kid is presented with a rather large bone that is long, and similar to a tibia. It is hollow, and seems much heavier than it is. The runes upon it are angular, and rushed, but seem to suggest a lion, and an eagle, among other things. When touched, it fills you with a sense of condemnation.
  • Tyrath’s vine holds a very small bone, so small the vine must keep moving and shuffling it along its surface so he can look at it. It is like a joint, or something equally small. There is one rune on its surface, which looks like a rabbit, and it glows a peaceful blue. The unholy creature near the tree seems to look at this bone appreciatively.
  • Tiamat is shown an eye socket, but it is huge, and heavy. It is marked with silvery wavering runes and droplets, and has the essence of something vastly powerful. The bone radiates with a sense of being alone, and not knowing why.
  • Oizys is presented with a tooth, but it is not a horses’. It’s edges are serrated, and where it would lodge into the mouth has a divot; the tooth itself curves backwards, like a fang. It is marked with hundreds of microscopic runes, encircling the image of a Moon, and is pleasantly cool.
  • Milo is shown a collection of bones which make up a hand. The pointer finger is extended while the rest are curled into the palm, with runes along each first joint of the fingers. It hums with power, and suggests sacrifice.
  • Orithia is shown a spine. It curves dramatically and is made of very light weight bone. The spine is marked with runes that mimic the gesture of wind, and brings to mind thoughts of vast, open savannahs. When the bone is touched, one is filled with a sense of failure, and entrapment.
  • Astarot is presented a smooth rib. It seems like it could have been taken from his own side, and is marked with runes shaped like crescent moons and stars. When you touch the rib, it fills you with a sense of accomplishment, and peace.
  • Syrena’s vine shows her a collection of wing bones. They are very, very small, and the microscopic runes which cover every inch of their surface shine a multitude of colors, depending on how they are angled. They hum with a busy energy, and seem to radiate with the sound of the weird elk headed monster’s laughter.
  • Lyanna sees wing bones, too, but hers are huge. The creature that wore them was at least three times her size, and their white surface is marked by what seems to be a life story. A small figure among the many others, including Moons, makes you think of the Bone Keeper at the tree. When touched, one is filled with the sense of flight, and enormous power.
  • Aquila’s vine holds the bones of a paw. It is small, and has oddly curving toe bones, putting the weight of the animal on its tip toes and claws, rather than flat against the ground. It is marked with the face of a howling wolf, and a full moon, but these images are trapped within a circle of thorny vines. When touched, it fills you with a sense of suffering, as if it is continually being punished.
  • Kitty is presented with a long, narrow tail. Its size suggests something small, and its whip like, flexible angles suggest the animal was nimble, and smaller than a dog. Its runes show Moons and what appear to be interlinking rings. When touched, one cannot help but feel like there is a promise yet to be fulfilled by the creature who owned this tail.


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Orithia Posts: 59
Outcast atk: 7.0 | def: 10.0 | dam: 3.0
Mare :: Pegasus :: 16.2hh :: 4 HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Eris
#14
ORITHIA


As the last of the equines filtered in through the trees, their murmurings vague and unheard by the dove, the monstrous creature before them began to speak once more. A breeze punctuated his words, wrapping her in the scent of rot and ruin. She shivered despite herself, a small, primitive part of her brain screaming in protest, screaming for her to flee. The pale mare gritted her teeth and steeled herself against that voice, tensing the muscles in her haunches as if she couldn't trust her own instinct not to take over.

This is what she wanted. She must remain steadfast, this is what she wanted.

As the vines uncoiled and snaked their way across the packed earth, bleached remains held aloft like offerings to some long-forgotten god, Orithia stepped forward, further lessening the distance between her and the Ravenous Dead. The vines undulated, hanging the ivory remains of a spine before her, etched with runes and glowing with moondust. So enthralled was she by the hypnotic swaying of the vertebrae before her, the mare almost missed the creature's words.

What can you tell me of my friends?


With a swallow and a staunch nod, the mare directed her gaze again to the undulating spine before her. Leaning forward, she sniffed at the interconnected bones, the faint rattle of their movement sounding like the swaying of grasses and the scent of savannah was near overwhelming. Taking half a step closer to the vines, part of her terrified of her proximity to the monster while the rest trilled with excitement - she stood here before death, would she be the one to walk away?

Her movement had brought her as close as she could be to the spine without touching it, pale eyes roving the glowing surface for any hint of it's previous owner. With deep breath and a shuddering exhale, the mare closed her eyes and reached her nose out to touch the bones. As the soft pink of her flesh pressed against the cracked and glowing surface, a scream pierced the silence - but it wasn't hers, was it?

She was already so far away...

The wind was biting this day and the Kholenii, High Priestess to the Golden Sea and her children, looked out from atop a swell in the earth at the terror that was being wrought below.


The screams, she was sure, were horrid. The stench, she knew, would be of blood and gore and death. The beautiful Golden Sea with it's horizons of Aurelian grasses and fertile soil, would be burned away. All this the Kholenii knew to be true, and yet the wind whisked away the screams and the scents and the smoke; saving it for the day she would meet the Gods before the Fourteen Gates of the Hells and receive the judgment she deserved.


And she would deserve a cruel judgment, this she knew as well.

For she had traded the lives of her clan, scores of beautiful, innocent souls to save but two; her own and that of the child within her womb.

The Plainswalker warriors had come to her in weeks past in the night - always the night for them. She imagined it was because the sun could not bear to look upon the cruelty of their crimes. They had promised the immunity of her and her unborn child if she gave them the information they sought, if she betrayed the very kingdom she had helped create. Her eyes slid closed, silent tears painting tracks down ivory cheeks as she imagined the dying screams of those she had served, those she had loved. She imagined the light fleeing their eyes, last words uttered upon bloodied lips.

The Kholenii knew it would not be the names of their loved ones whispered to that immortal night, she knew it would be hers, the name she would wear until the end of time, one borne upon a tide of lies and death. She whispered it once into that vicious wind, prayed it to be whisked away and into the arms of the Dark Mother;

Her final confession.
Her condemnation.
Betrayer.

~*~*~

The pain was blinding and the heat was near suffocating as the Kholenii of a dead tribe heaved and pushed, forcing the child from her loins in a spray of agony and the tearing of flesh. A guttural moan slipped from her lips as her sweat-soaked sides heaved with effort and pain. She snapped at a passing nursemare, eyes wild as the elderly mare scurried past the lone figure in the doorway in search of water and rags.

He stood proud and cruel, the stallion, his eyes alight with a sickening victory and his lips painted with the blood of her womb. She had thought he loved her once, but now, as the truth lay bare before her eyes and before the screaming release that was birth, she knew it was all for sport and a twisted sense of pride. She bared her teeth at him, the enamel cracked and chipped from grinding at the garnets he had forced her to eat.

"This child," the memory of his voice slithered into her mind, as slippery and serpentine as ever, "My child, she will be the thing of legends. Formed from jewels and blood, hundreds of souls sacrificed for her existence, she will reign eternal before me. You shall birth for me the child of betrayal and rage, the perfect creature to rear and break beneath my rule. You shall birth for me the Endsinger."

A violent spasm seized her then, ripping her from memory as a final shove forced the child from her womb and into the cruel, cruel world. Twisting, the Kholenii stared at the feeble babe upon the marbled floor, her wings tiny and useless, ivory coat stained pink with blood. Nursemares rushed to the child, still lying unmoving upon that polished floor, and for a moment, the mare felt a thrill of victory thrumming through her veins. She turned her gaze to the stallion, to the creature woven of demons and spite, greed and hellfire, she grinned her supremacy as if to say "See? You do not get everything you want. You do not win here. You do not win me."

But the victory was a false one as she felt a stirring near her quarters and the faint mewling of a child, newly born and yet innocent in this land where monsters played god and gods turned a blind eye.

A hoarse cry sprang from the Kholenii's lips, building to a wretched scream, her throat ripping upon the razors in her voice, tearing beneath the weight of her failure. Nonononono. Not her, not her too. Please no. Her screams and prayers fell upon the thrones of deaf gods and taunting devils alike - everything she had been promised, everything she had sacrificed had been for naught. She had failed. She had failed she had failed she had failedfailedfailed.

The disgraced woman, Kholenii of the Golden Sea now turned to rot and ruin, the mother of a child now given to hell, given to Uumalah, laid her head upon the cursed marble floor, despair her one true companion as the laughter of her torturer rang out victory. Sharp hoof falls upon the floor announced his approach, a pressure upon her heaving chest, the feel of a deadly promise behind the weight of his hooves. His voice was but a whisper in her ear, but for all the world, she could swear he was screaming into her very bones, "Your last words must be her name, little Kholenii of the Rotted Sea. Choose wisely for she is to be my greatest asset in the years to come. Our little Queen of her own little Hell."

She could feel his lips against her cheek, pulling into a slow grin - the selfsame grin that used to stir butterflies in her stomach, the grin that reddened her cheeks and haunted her dreams. Tears slipped down her cheeks, tracing tracks in the dirt and blood, the defeat in her heart as heavy as the day she orchestrated the slaughter of her people.

All of it, for what? A broken promise and a daughter sentenced to a life of agony.

Swallowing the taste of bitter sorrow upon her tongue, the mare whispered four syllables into the stifling heat of the room before a blinding flash of pain struck behind her eyelids and sucked her into the endless halls of death.

"Orithia..."


Orithia was shoved back into her body with a choking gasp and a terrified sob fighting for release from her lips. Her legs shook, her very core shook beneath the truth she had witnessed; the truth of her origin. Suddenly, everything seemed to be too much, the dim light filtering through the canopy, the presence of the other equines, the very air too close for her to breathe. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath, whites of her eyes showing as she struggled with the reality of her existence; the truth behind her legacy.

Ragged breaths were sucked in as she looked up to find the pulsating gaze of the Restless Dead staring back at her. At first she could not find her voice, lips moving without sound as if in prayer. At last, after a seemingly endless stretch of time, the mare's words could be heard.

"My... Mother. This is the spine of my mother." Outrage flashed within those pastel eyes before dimming into a shocked sort of acceptance, "I was.... She was a High Priestess of a clan. She - she thought she had fallen in love and when she had gotten pregnant, she betrayed the entire clan. She..." Orithia's jaw clenched with the agony of confession, but she allowed truth to pry her mouth apart, "They were slaughtered. All of them. She gave them for me, for the future she thought she would have with my father and I. But he betrayed her, forced her to eat garnets to make me more valuable... Beat her to make me stronger. He -- He was a madman, a jester in the courts of the gods, a monster." Tears made tracks down her cheeks.

So like her mother's.

"You give me her spine? Is this to say she never had one? That she never had the strength of heart to keep her family, her child away from the grasp of a demon?" She fought to keep the anger from her voice, knowing it would hold no purpose here, "You give me her spine and her truths? This is the token you barter with? The Truth?"

Her tongue tasted of blood. Of garnets.

"I've beheld your Truth, Creature. What would you have me tell?"


[Magic: DarkxEarth (P) | Blood turns to garnets when it leaves body.]
NO PRIOR REFUSALS

O SHIT SORRY THIS GOT REAL REALLY FAST
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Honestly, kick her ass at any time. Seriously.
Any and all aggressive and non-aggressive contact permitted.
Please no permanent injury or death. We'll get to that part at some point.
xoxo

Milo Posts: 60
Outcast
Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 2 years [Birdsong]
Jen
#15
Kahelo.

My heart shivers when I hear her speak my name. Kahelo. The only name I've been given by someone who gives a damn about whether I live or die. And now she is here to protect me, to offer her side for me to stand by.

There's a soft fire, a gentle tugging wind, that plays upon my heart when I realize that she cares for me. Aquila, the mare with the teeth of the same crocodile that numbed my heart and brought me pain, is here when my parents are not. She watches over me when my herd lets me slip through the cracks and wander out into the wilderness. As long as she is alive, I am not alone.

And there's only so much I can do to contain that emotion, that sudden flush of something that I want to call love but know that I can't because I can't love. That was taken from me, that was twisted away with a heartless wrench and now I'm left empty, aren't I? I'm here staring dead-eyed at a monster made of beast and bone, and when he offers me a prize of my own I don't even feel pity for whatever vague creature he describes—wants me to describe.

No, I will not do this for him. I will not do this, not even for her. I have a voice, I know I do, and it belongs to me. It must stay locked within, pushed down underneath that beating heart I so vainly have endeavored to control. When the vines dangle the bones I at first look away, as if to refuse them.

But there's something in that pointing. There's something in that hum, so like the one that my father uttered to sing his companion to her sweet, unending death. And I know, wordless or not, I must at least try to understand.

Having never seen a hand in my life the bones are undeniably foreign; I can connect them to nothing other than those of the rats Manhattan would eat and shred before me. But these are not throwaways or chew toys, these bones are pregnant with power. My golden eyes narrow and I stand firm—firm beside Aquila, as commanded. She, at least, I respect.

But there still must be some rebellion, some hate of this process. When the white winged mare, a later comer than I, begins to detail her speech I am struck by the passion. Is this the depth of sorrow the creature hopes to impart? Is that why I am given the bones that hum, the bones that bring up only memories of Manhattan?

The white mare goes on, the details she offers are cruel and twisted ones. But they are hers, and from the pain in her eyes I fear that she has guessed all too correctly. By the time her voice fades into nothing but an echo, I have turned back to look at my own "gift." This creature's "friend."

Whatever it was once, a sacrifice it will be now. Merciless, I grab ahold of the bones as Manhattan would—grip them firm between my teeth. I cannot go to the grieving mare, cannot offer her comfort, but I can offer her this. I shake my head a firm no at the creature, for I will not speak when it commands, and give the bones one last tug in an effort to pull them from the vine.

The bones are rigged free, and once on the ground they crack apart. I lift one youthful hoof and slam it down on that cursedly pointed finger, crushing it beneath what little force I have collected on my time on earth.

I stand shaking and seek out the game-master's skull; I can't even call it a face. The sole form of expression held within the bones is shattered and erased: made a sacrifice for the magic I might gain, the pain this mare has felt, and the wickedness of this game. If that does not tell him of these bones within my limitation of silence, I do not know what does.

I have never before felt so brave.



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Seeking:
[WaterxDark :: Can use moisture from the surroundings to summon waves]
[Restrictions :: Extends 5m radius from body; can create up to three small or one large wave.]

Aquila and Orithia (but mostly Aquila) mentioned.

Kid Posts: 122
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Colt :: Equine :: 15hh :: 3 years HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE
dark
#16
kid
I'm one of many to follow the mysterious song of the rattling bones, skull graced head turning to watch others follow in my footsteps, here only (or so I assume) because of the harmonious thrum of power— it's a promise of something dark and wonderful, a gift granted by the pitch blackness lurking at the edges of our vision, given by the demons lurking in our subconscious. I am not the only son of Volterra to be summoned by this possibility of power, watching as two mirror faces (face stealers, it seems to run in the family) appear alongside me, apart of the spectators. Another face presents itself, one worn by a snarky and subtly sympathetic grulla with an attitude. A grin splits open across my jagged features, disrupting the blank mask I'd worn here. I make my way towards her, shit eating grin still present as I slide up next to her (given she hasn't run away from me). "Fancy seeing you here." Although it would be good manners to at least say hello to my brothers, I pay them no mind. We aren't to be friends anyway, we were competitors for an illusory throne.

I care even less for everyone else, not bothering to take the time to recognize the faces I'd seen before (that mute boy from when the salmon asked questions)— I didn't come here to chit chat and make friends (even though I spoke to Ms. Super Salty). My focus is solely on the beast before me, the mongrel built of gods know what, hollow eyes watching us form an acceptable audience before presenting each attendee with a bone. The vines unfurl, letting loose a wonderful array of pieces belonging to a million different things.

The bone before me is long, eyes focusing on it as I adjust to the sight (and smell) of something decayed, bleach white bone staring right back. I take it from the vine with hesitance, holding it in my mouth for a moment and almost dropping it with the unexpected weight. The end hits the ground, a resonating thunk against gnarled roots (its hollow?). As my lips wrap around the long bone (like mine?), I feel overwhelmed by something dreadfully familiar. My shoulders slouch under the weight of disapproval, legs trembling beneath the silent accusations that I cannot hear, only feel.

I gasp, knowing well this feeling (so familiar), heart thundering as the one existence that causes such a heavy feeling comes to mind. Mother. Beneath her stone cold gaze I feel the accusatory finger, twisted and terrifying as it points solely at me and my flawed existence. But this is not Mother's bone I bear, only the sense of damnation she brings with each venomous word she spits from her mouth in rapid succession. She is not dead— I only just saw her in her gloom filled daze, wandering blindly through this same forest (she's in here somewhere).

The cries of another participant seem so distant and far away, drowned out by the sound of blood in my ears as my eyes glaze over. Somewhere in this same forest is a woman who has titled herself an emperor of an empty empire, a self proclaimed mother to one child and a missing memory of one, who near everyday puts the one remaining child of hers through hell and back because she cannot manage her emotions (cannot accept her failures as such and leave well enough alone). My lips purse as I step away from the bone, having set it down upon the ground, gaze held by the rune marked body part. I want to step away from it until I don't feel this way anymore, until my lungs aren't being crushed beneath the damning pressures of a mentally unstable mother.

The runes are brought to my attention, giving possibilities of a lion, an eagle— possibilities endless as the bone lays before me. My mind cannot function beyond the thoughts of Mother, caged in and tethered to her (just as I was in the first months of my life), a prisoner to my own emotion. A lip is brought between needy teeth, attempting to collect any given clues. Piece by piece I work, slow and gradual as my thoughts come together (slowly at first, then becoming a gradual rhythm) to form something grand. In no tone of confidence— much rather one of quiet anxiety— I speak up to the beast. "Your friend lived a heavy life, burdened by the damnation set upon them— by whom, I do not know. They were perhaps something strong, something courageous, but no one can run from such judgement forever." Somber words fill my mouth, a flood of sympathy that I never expected to give— why did I feel so greatly for a single bone offered to me for some foolish game (for something I'm not even guaranteed to receive)?

"Talk."
literally had no idea what i was doing oh well
wishlist seeking,
darkxwater | his blood causes a heightened sex drive to those who come in contact with it, the potency depends on how much they come in contact with
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Kitty Posts: 10
Up For Adoption atk: 5 | def: 8.0 | dam: 6.0
Stallion :: Equine :: 17.3 hh :: 7 HP: 62.0 | Buff: NOVICE
Adoptable
#17
K itty

Before you can even get a good look at the gift Kitty's been given, a white mare that it seems even he hadn't noticed before begins to throw some sort of fit. Her mother's spine, she says. You would laugh if Kitty didn't beat you to it. He has as much respect for mares as any, you know that, but the flickering red in his eyes tells you that he isn't sure this game is quite so serious.

"You think that's your mother's spine? Forgive me if I consider it unlikely that this gambler in the woods was ever a friend of your family. Don't you think he has better things to do with his time than dig through your overburdened memories?" Kitty snorts then, and the way that the air puffs out from his nostrils is so perfect that you just want to grab ahold of them. Every word he casts at the mare is like a fight song to you—silently you chant for more. But as foolish as the mare might seem to him, she will never be worth that much time. Silently, he turns back to examine his own assignment. He is, after all, quite a hard and focused worker that way.

Call him cold for his denunciation of the mare's tragedy, call him ignorant for rolling his eyes at one silver colt's show or rebellion, but you know that he's simply being pragmatic. This is a game, after all, so what good is it to try and tug at the heartstrings or break the rules? No, this is a moment for strategy.

His own gift is long and indelicate; not at all fitting for the gorgeous selle on the terra, in your opinion. But Kitty looks over it with care, presses his nose to the bones and inhales every remnant of its scent. There's little left of its life there, but still he can taste the mystery in its air.

When he steps back to get a different look, his broad shoulders rolling, he does not need to take so long. If he were to craft his answer on pure emotion alone it would be easy but stupid, in the end. Now he at least has some evidence.

"You give me the bones of nocturnal prey, game master, and young prey at that. A night-dodger that got caught by its tail when the sun dared to rise too soon and pass by the moon with pure indifference. Given the age I'm sure it had more it could have done in life; given the unfortunate unluck of its death, I imagine it would have lasted much longer in a perma-dark forest like this."

He responds deftly and smartly, just as you expected and hoped. Your hands clap with a tortured glee as you listen to his answer. You pick up on his thoughts, share them in your heart.

As if this gambler could ever track down where he'd hid those other old bones.


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:: [Magic: Dark x Light | Ability to influence another's actions by prompting them with a specific verbal command.]
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Speaks to @Orithia.

Lyanna the Windswept Posts: 313
World's Edge Queen atk: 7 | def: 11 | dam: 4.0
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.2 :: 5 years HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Kyra
#18

i am a leaf on the wind

Has she ever been good at games? Maybe, but of her other sibling’s, she was the worst. Corbin was cunning and quick. Finding him a game of hide-and-seek was impossible, and catching him in a game of tag was even worse. And Adelene just hated to lose. It was worth throwing a game just to avoid listening to her whine about it. Which didn’t make the girl good at games. Actually, maybe it did. Maybe she knew just exactly what she was doing. Corbin coddled Adelene, in a way he never coddled Lyanna (she appreciated him for that). He let their little sister win just about everything, but he always creamed Lyanna in the process.

She’s sure this isn’t going to be the same type of game though. Their games never started with a Frankenstein creature and a forest of bones. The creature (monster?) remains silent, eyes leaving hers, passing over each of the horses. There are a few that he seems more interested in, and she wonders what draws something like him (it?) to specific horses. He seems too remote, and too far above them, for any of them to matter at all.

He speaks, and the air grows cold again. She pulls her wings closer to her side, reminded of Frostfall. She’s tired of Frostfall, and beginning to wonder if whatever lies on the other side of this game will be worth it. But it has to be worth it, or they wouldn’t all be here. The vines move around the creature, snaking toward each of the horses gathered. She steps back before thinking, and then stills her feet, tries to slow her heart. It’s not here to hurt you, she thinks, but of course, she has no idea if it’s true.

Besides, she has so little to live for. What difference does it make? But that is an easier thought than reality. When faced with the actual choice, she suspects she might not want to meet death. Yes, she wants to join her family. Yes, she misses them. Yes, she wishes everything were different.

But is she done with this life yet? No. She is not ready to be one of the bones that dangles from the trees. His words are in line with her train of thought. Perhaps they sparked her train of thought, and she didn’t even realize. The vine has stopped in front of her, bobbing about like a feather floating down the river. Like the way she would have once kept leaves aloft with the power of the wind.

The bone in front of her is a wing. There’s no mistaking that much. But what could it belong to? The bone is massive, stretching much larger than her own wings. She unfurls one of her own wings, and finds the bone to be more than twice the size of her own. The body attached must have been massive. Markings cover the bone. She can make out a figure that reminds her of the creature standing beneath the bone tree. And moons. She reaches out, managing to touch the bouncing bone with her muzzle. For a flash, she’s flying, but the power that she feels is amazing and impossible and enormous. Something so like what she knew when she controlled the wind. A flight full of infinite possibilities. She’s left hollow and empty when the bone swings away, longing for one more touch.

“Who were you?” she say, voice quiet, to the bone. Her mind wanders back to all the stories she’s ever heard. There were plenty of them. She was a Princess after all, and spent long hours of her life entertaining diplomats from foreign lands. What stories did she know of massive, flying creatures with an affinity for the moon?

There’s only one story that comes to mind. “Bakunawa?” she asks, though she’s not expecting an answer. Rather, she’s asking the bone in a show of respect for the dead. “The Moon Eater,” she says, now to the creature, knowing she needs to answer his question. “He was a sea serpent, but with two sets of wings. One large, and one small.” The bone in front of her would have belonged to the large set, if she’s even remotely correct in her guess.  

The story of Bakunawa isn’t the first thing that comes to her though. She has to think again, for a moment. Past the night itself. The diplomats, with their light coats and black hair and slight accent. Past Corbin to her right and Adelene to her left, swatting their tails at each other behind Lyanna’s back.  It had been beautiful that night. The stars out, and the moon full. Ah, the moon. That’s why their visitors had told the story.

“He fell in love with a human girl,” she begins, recalling, her voice distant, reciting. “The girl belonged to one of the native tribes, but when the leader of the tribe found out about it, he burned the girl’s house to the ground. In revenge, Bakunawa left the sea and took to the sky. In revenge for the girl, he tried to eat the seven moons created by Bathala in the Beginning.” She remembers the story, remembers how they told her of the anger and the rage and the pain and the grief that Bakunawa must have felt. There were no words for it then, and there were no words now. But she looks at the bone with understanding, because her home had burned as well, and she knows how he feels.

She knows what it’s like to have everything ripped from you. And it’s the worst feeling in the world.  

“Bathala banished Bakunawa from his home in the sea. During a solar eclipse, some still believe that Bakunawa is trying to return home, trying to eat the last moon and find his way back to the sea and the girl.” She stops, focusing now on the creature. Wondering who he is in this. They were friends, he said. Bathala? The creator of the universe. It seems so possible, so likely, that this creature made up of everything could be the one who made everything. Perhaps not, perhaps she is wrong. But she knows how the Bakunawa must have felt. She feels it too much, too close to home, and the question slips out anyway. “Bathala?”  Do you know what pain you caused? But she does not ask that. Just the name. It seems like enough.

watch how i soar.

lyanna



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[Magic: WindxLight | Able to control wind currents to move objects. ]
Restrictions: Limited to moving small objects, winds extend 10m from body.

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Syrena Posts: 207
Dragon's Throat Forger
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16.1 hh :: 7 years
Thelxiepeia :: Royal Rougarou :: Water Kyra
#19
Syrena
let the water take me
She’s hardly all that concerned, all things considered. This should be scary or something. And okay, it is, but then again she’s half made legendary, mythical creatures herself. And she did spend the first couple years of her life luring men to their death. Feeding on their souls to sustain her immortality (long gone now, such a waste). She still dreams of that power, of some small shred of the ability to make men fear for their lives again.

So yes, while the amalgamation of a monster that stands before them is scary, so was she once. And she’s trying not to forget that losing her powers doesn’t make her powerless. It just makes her different. Granted there’s no water around here to strangle someone with seaweed, but she wouldn’t do that anyway. It would look bad for the Falls and all, and she can’t have that.

She is damn tired of the cold that comes every time he speaks though. Her wet skin prickles in the wind, and she tries not to shiver. The stench of the monster finds her as well, and she actually crinkles her nose at this one. She loves the smell of the sea, can even stand the smell of decaying fish within the waves. But this? It’s death that’s long past its expiration, like milk gone bad only centuries worse. Pleasant.

But whatever lay at the end of this was worth it. She’d suffer and toil and sweat to become something again. It is not the life she planned on, not the life were she was born with all the powers she could ever want. No, she would lash trees and build walls and struggle, but she would get there.

The vines snake out from the tree now, carrying bones in their green fingers. Each vine heads towards one of the horses gathered – most of whom she doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to know. Some of them are talking amongst themselves. But Syrena just stands off to the side, concerned with the prize at the end and not with making small talk. The vine bounces about before her, and she wants to reach out and snap at the vine till it just stops. But she resists, eyes bouncing around in her skull instead, examining the bones.

They are freaking tiny, and she can’t make much out at first. There’s a ton of them, and finally, she begins to figure out they are little tiny wing bones. Lots of them. The runes flash in a stroke-inducing array of colors, though in a way, she finds them beautiful. But they aren’t fish, and they aren’t from the sea since they have wings. She’s not well versed in land and sky creatures, and so it takes her a minute before she even has a guess.

The sounds from the bones give her the best clues. They hum with a busy energy, and all around her she can hear that laugh. Something mischievous and odd and similiar to the monster’s laugh. She’s getting tired of that sound, and wants it to shut up. So she answers. “Fairies?” Her voice is deadpan, but there’s a slight cock to her head that implies amusement. Fairies. Well then. The monster put fairies, of all creatures, in front of her. It’s almost funny, if she knew how to laugh. Or maybe fitting. They were monstrous little things. So was see, just not so little.

“Small, winged humanoid creatures known for being playful and mischievous, and often cruel. They generally keep to themselves in small parts of the woods, known as fairy glens. They have an affinity for nature, which would explain why they live in the woods. They do come out to cause trouble though, which can range from tangling hair to killing.” Pesky little creatures, she thinks. But perhaps rather useful friends.

Unlike many of the others, she feels no personal affront here. Maybe the creature used fairies to kill. Hell, maybe he killed them. She doesn’t care, or judge for that matter. Instead, she waits to see what comes next. She answered the question, she played. Next step.

"words"

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:: [Magic: dark x water | Can create water illusions that create the sensation of dehydration or drowning]
:: [Restrictions | Causes shortness of breath, dizziness, and confusion in battle, and lasts 10 seconds]

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Oizys Posts: 134
Aurora Basin Soldier atk: 7.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.5
Mare :: Hybrid :: 17hh :: 2 HP: 73.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Ker :: Philippine Eagle :: Curse Snow
#20


He addresses her directly, does the boy; she frowns and flaps back her ears, horrified that somebody here might see them interacting and think they're friends, as Enyo did. "We must stop meeting like this," she draws, exuding sarcasm, although she can't force any real malice into her voice. The dreaded empathy begins to bubble beneath the surface and she edges swiftly away from him, away from the Feels that keep trying to eat her alive from within.

Gods damn that boy, and his bloody mother: firstly for parting her thighs to his father, whoever that may be, and secondly for seemingly treating him shittily enough to make Oizys feel sorry for him. Away with you, bad feels!

Her attention is swiftly re-snatched by the demon horse beast thing, who summons bones (ooh, how creepily delightful) from the world around them. The 'friend' that appears in front of the gargoyle is something akin to a tooth, and she sniffs it curiously. It's hooked, serrated, deadly - she half-contemplates saying screw this magic lark, she'll make do with the tooth as her prize. It'd make a beautiful weapon, curved and sharp even in death....but no, she came for power, and power keeps her here. She snuffles at the tooth, noting that it's nicely cold against her searching lips, and there are countless runes engraved into it. She isn't quite sure what she's meant to do - the first woman to speak is convinced that the spine is her mother, and Oizys goggles at the tooth through the side of her eye. Is it supposed to be a relative? Is she related to anything predatory? She thinks of Father, the great snake, and smiles a cold smile, but this tooth cannot be his. It just....can't.

So it seems she will have to use her imagination; make up a fitting story to match this tooth. Ker springs from her back and pecks curiously at the bone, but she, too, cannot think what it might be from. Well, bullshit it is, then. "This is the tooth of an ice bear, who dwelled in the far north and devoured each and every piece of prey that came before him. The serrated edge could carve through flesh as easily as sun cuts through snow, and the prey lived in fear of his wrath. As well as his claws, his teeth and his great size, your friend the bear had magic, too. He could breathe ice, freeze anything that stumbled across his path. But he wasn't a mindless brute, no. He was a pious man, who worshipped the Moon. Not our own Moon Goddess, but the Moon itself, the Moon that brought the night in which he loved to hunt, the Moon that scared away the Sun who tried to melt his home and chase away the prey."

She pauses for breath, and notices that Ker is hanging on her every word. She looks at the rapturous bird in disgust - it's only a story, dumbass, it isn't true. The eagle seems rather disappointed at this, and carries on scrutinising the tooth with her sharp eyes as though she can will this mythical bear into life. "Once he had reached a great age, your friend died, as we all must, and the prey breathed easily once again. As a reward for his lifelong loyalty, the Moon gave him a place among the stars. Although his body was consumed by predators and maggots, his bones were engraved with the Moon's symbol and left to rest beneath the snow as testament to him." She realises that the last bit doesn't tally with the fang being here, and frowns. "And then that tooth, uh, moved here. Because...magic."

Nee-naw nee-naw, the bullshit police are here. She grimaces, shuddering at the cheesyness of her story and the lame ending, but hopes it'll do. She inserted as much heartfelt emotion into it as possible, as though she gives a hairy rat's ass about this fictional bear and his fictional tooth. She doesn't - but dammit, she'll be an actress one day. Why could the great brute not have just made them fight for the prize? Then, the witch would have stood a chance. Stories, imagination, literature? Fuck that.

O I Z Y S
I'M NOT A HERO, I'M A LIAR
I'M NOT A SAVIOUR, I'M A VAMPIRE
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[ Magic: Dark x Spark | Can create lightning creatures that shock when they touch skin. ]
[ Restrictions | Creatures cannot be larger than Oizys herself; can create 1 large or 2 small per battle? ]

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