the Rift


[PRIVATE] Freeze you out

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
#1

Small dusty nostrils exhaled into the sand, the tiny speckles of gold and red catch scattered to the winds while the heavier grains merely nudged in a different direction. He doesn't know exactly how long he's been laid in front of the rocky crevice which he often dozes, a little ways away is the oasis and the richer grasses of birdsong, but he can't bring himself to care. The colt can hear the sounds of foals playing, young and older than he, probably by the sides of his mothers and his gut bubbles with jealousy. He should be there playing with his mother, and yet here he is, a pitiful heap of legs and downy wings, sulking in the shade.


Alone, bitter and failing at hiding it, and the failure is a bitter pill to swallow.

He's supposed to be strong, isn't he? His pa is strong, and he likes to think his mother is too, where ever she is in the throat or beyond it's beachy borders. He's killed a wolf! for God sake! He has dragon magic bubbling in his heart and in his veins! He is strong, yet here he is, laying between the sandy grasses and sunbleached rocks like some stray left out in the bitter elements. No pa, no ma and all the hunger and emotions to go along with it. Astarot has his mother, and bitterness turns to momentary jealousy, a grumbled snort sends another wave of dust into the air and he pulled his gangly legs to him to make himself more comfortable. The idea that he was jealous, displaying weak emotions made him feel all the more terrible and annoyed with himself, he could recite the words in his mind like a chant to the God of the Sun by now. Strength. Honour. Power. There could be no weaknesses, even when your bones were brittle with youth and eyes bright with innocence, so why was he here? Sulking with round eyes and a tight chest.

Tyrath knew he could easily just get up and wiggle away, if he really wanted to. Go and try and find something on the mainland to take his mind off of it — or he could practice his magic some more, but even today the allure of changing into a Gold Dragon can't entertain the skull boy today. Part of him wanted to sulk, part of him wanted to be angry and sad, bitter and jealous that he was alone. Once again with only himself for company, just him and the birds and all the negativity a boy could fester within himself. 


"Talk."
Life is not a song, sweetling.
Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.
Tyrath

image | coding


@Sikeax
[Image: tyrath_by_bronzehalo_d9yw5wg_by_arahvir-d9yx9ov.png]

Sikeax the Sea Soul Posts: 355
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16 hh :: 5 years HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Hobgoblin :: Common Rougarou :: Water & Seoul :: Plain White Dragon :: Toxic Breath Zuno
#2



You're all that still matters

She lets the hours tick by from the sidelines, watching the sky change and shift between blue skies and thin wefts of fat clouds. The shade she has found herself in is slowly growing smaller. Heat picks away at her with needy grasps. She tries to count the days leading up to Tallsun and the amount of Aloe Vera she’ll need to drag out of the desert to treat both her own burns and those of her herdmates. She even attempts to sleep, but the weather wins her over.
Hobgoblin has chosen to reside in the lake for the time being. As she stands, pulling herself out of the fire-coloured dust and promptly shaking, his eyes haunt her like a ghost, seeing the world through her eyes. He recedes into the abyss where she cannot reach for his hand, and for a split second, she feels the slightest hint of his body morphing, taking place somewhere where she can’t see him.
He’s by her side within minutes, sprinting in a lazy gallop with black legs bouncing over the ground. Neither feel resentment towards one another when Sikeax has chosen to walk along without him, or when the Rougarou abandons her side to hunt. The dark form fades into the outskirts of the grass, chasing things she has no interest in. She doesn’t fill the empty spaces in his eyes when he is gone. Something about his world when he hunts makes her want to empty herself into the ocean, far away from the squeals and screams of pain that cry from the mouths of wounded and dying animals.
Grass takes up space between her teeth just as Hobgoblin’s prey does, but only one stomach finds itself full.
The heat gains the upper ground within thirty minutes of walking, and as the rocky outcrops increase in number, the possibility of discovering one large enough to house both her and her brother increased.
Some contain gifts, whether it be birds resting that either fall prey to Hobgoblin’s jaws or flee with the best speed they can muster, or small animals that simply do not care for the Rougarou’s presence. One in particular brings something the shifter doesn’t want.
A child.
Yellow eyes stare for what feels like hours, watching the silver child with curiosity and slight displeasure. While Sikeax might love the presence of a child, Zhu’s growth has left children to have a bitter taste in his mouth. They change and then no longer care, he cannot permanently win and control them either. Violent flicks of a long, slender tail follow,
“Found another Zhu.”
Huh?
“Silver Zhu.”

Wrinkles rise from her features as she becomes more puzzled, peering through his eyes for a short amount of time to discover what exactly he means. A child. A small one, with wings and a face that reminds her strongly of someone special.
Volterra.
By some unspoken law, she feels that it is now her responsibility to see this child and assure that they are okay. Mothers may leave their children hidden away from the heat, and while she typically wouldn’t bother them anymore other than asking if they knew their mother was returning soon and if they were fine, Zhu’s potential half-brother carries a heavier weight on her chest. They are family, some way or another.
He is amazingly still there when she arrives, despite Hobgoblin’s blazen choice of form. A frown forms on her lips as he stares at her through empty eye sockets and a skinless face that hides the fact that he is pleased. She can feel it hanging the room like thick, dusty air. It smells of death.
“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft, dry. The air feels tight with the increasing heat. “Where is your mother?” She lets her head dip to his level, almost invading his hiding spot as she inspects him. The paintings across his face don’t perfectly match that of which she’s seen on His face, but the red eyes are a dead giveaway. A short twist comes up in her stomach.
“Your problem now.”


notes notes notes notes


you were angels,
so much more than everything

:: please tag me
:: minor force and power play allowed


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


The monotony of the day is broken with the arrival of something in his personal space, and the child has a particularly large space he considers his, often fluctuating with his emotions. Some days he welcomes the company, revels in it and frolicks and other days he'd rather be the rolling storm, unapproachable by all. His rain doesn't seem to put off whatever sleek creature is spying him from a little way off, pupilless eyes gave it a curious if not cynical glance before his gazed moved back toward the oasis. Whatever it is, he's not particularly interested in it at that moment, on another day he might have stopped to give it some attention, but today isn't that day.


Or so he thought, until something compelled him to really look at the creature. Really look, like he had when he had searched the Riptide Isles with the Giantess, and what he found staring back sent a chill down his spine. Is it dead? It smells dead, the air is thick with it, musty and old. He doesn't want to admit to himself that he just might be scared of the undead stag-creature. Whatever it really is, he can clearly picture it stalking the night, blank sockets peering through the dim moonlight, the final thing it's quarry saw before the abyss. The thought caused his nostrils to quiver, and his muscles to reflexively tense. Part of him wanted to get to his feet and slink away, before it had any idea's on what to do to the young tribrid to pass the time, a much louder voice commanded him to stay put and wait, to flee makes to you prey, and he's not some tasty morsel on the way to a feast.

It's not too long before another decides to show up, and this time it's a mare. With a horn made of stained glass and a pelt draped in autumn champagne, her eyes the colour of the ocean after a storm. She suits the dunes, the boy thought, like a desert flower effortlessly at home in such a hostile environment — blooming where all others would wilt. Her presence is enough to pull his large eyes away from the creature, wings pulled firmly back to his sides as she came closer. The mare looked at him as though she held some concern for his well being, that his lonesome form against the background of sand and grasses worries her. It's more than his carers do, who peer at him and then return to whatever is more important or utter some half-assed words as a kind of pitiful balm for his volatile emotions. "I'm fine." He responded, the tone of his voice betraying the words, they tell that he's bitter somewhere down in that small chest of his and the wetness of his tongue may as well be acid.

She asked where his ma is, and small ears pressed back against his poll as a stab of pain jabs at his heart. Gone, vanished, a ghost on the spring wind, they'd all be correct and apt replies to the champagne mare and her creepy companion — he must be a companion, because who could stand to be near a creature who reeked of decay like that? "She's not here, she's not been here for awhile." He mumbled after a long pause, a deliberate pause as he had mulled over whether to tell her. He placed a deliberate stress on the word awhile, hoping that she might figure out just how heavy the word is, and how far it stretches. She's the first that's actively bothered with him, and there's a small glimmer in him which shines for her to stay. It'd be nice to have company.


"What's your name?" He finally asked, another glance stolen toward her ghastly companion to see if he had advanced closer. "And what is that?"

"Talk."

Life is not a song, sweetling.
Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.
Tyrath

image | coding


@Sikeax
[Image: tyrath_by_bronzehalo_d9yw5wg_by_arahvir-d9yx9ov.png]


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