the Rift

stitch a seam across the eye

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
The dark bliss, void of salvation, vacant of virtue, heralded with the indulgent satisfaction of a ruthless behemoth, hummed its vicious, scathing sibilance towards his twisted soul, poured the twisting shades of nocturnal reverie against his languid entity. Deimos, the scion of terror, preferred the aching, hallowed tombs of an eerie marsh, to the condemnation of another herd. Reclusive again, isolated and desolate, his vile heart grew ever more solidified in the decadent touches of listlessness, where the immoral succor of treachery, deceit, and depravity coasted on lethargic lands, skimming, devouring, festering upon inaction. Nothingness was a dangerous threshold to stand upon, withering in the sinuous art of damnation, coveting and contorting until the mayhem reached one’s soul again, itched against skin as sin slid over its malcontent disorder again – cherished the precious armaments of an infernal existence. Straining against the cobwebs of one’s ruthless fixation, he lulled around darkened corridors, loomed amongst heavy, heady gallows, prospered the silent, reticent, rapier howls of augured violence with naught to grant the feral splendor. He moved as a wandering blade, singeing and singing scintillating chords of annihilation, hushed furor, frigid fervor, lavished upon empty, hollow portals, lacquered malicious, cruel ardor. His perilous motions stroked the laced sinew of fog and abyss, chased against ruffian parlors, entombed and enshrouded in the midst and mist of calamity, reverberating the haunting death song of diabolical design. No ire, no wrath, no incensed fury poised from his daggers, only that heedless, ruthless crush of decay, crossing, fixating, on the friction of the earth, feeding and consuming on its benedictions, on its aspirations, on its whims and fancies. What was more treacherous, more dangerous, more menacing: when the devilish croons ushered him to unleash the virtues of his curse, or when he went searching for predacious anarchy? By which hand would he strike, by which gift would this bestial realm grant his savage resolutions? A canvas of licentious pursuits, Tartarean guile, Mephistophelean regard, a bard’s brutal whisper of a serrated sonnet, intoxicating, plundering, pillaging, eagerly haunting within the runes of rampant demons, where sinister, formidable, and chilling horror resided across the marsh, and not just in his imperial recherché.

Bedlam’s creatures never stayed idle for long.

[open. Time for Deimos to actually meet others. :3]

Tillas Posts: N/A
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[Image: v75vt4.png]

[OOC; I will try my best to compete against your lurvly writing :D Also, sorry if the writing style is a bit strange, I'm fiddling around with Tillas' point of view]

Normally, I am unbothered by shadows and darkness. I have faced a fair share myself, and to be honest, I am not so sweet anyways. Bitter, even cruel, perhaps, some may say. No, this is what I truthfully am- powerful, sexist, somewhat racist, aggressive, unloving, quick, decisive, and rewarding to those who listen to me. Cloven hooves the silver of spiderweb silk dance through the marsh with an elegant ease, picking a wandering path at random. My white-of-the-moon tail flicks, combing satin white-of-stardust flanks. A delicate gray muzzle twitches, my ice blue eyes flit around the marsh. What do they call this place? Place-of-sins, my body does tell me. A place where the living are condemned to wallow in the water, floating, bloated bodies. Stupid, stupid animals to fall within the depths-of-a-well-water.

To my surprise, a stallion-of-shadows stands proud. A spiraling horn, immense in length, glints to a deadly point. Ha, ha-ha! A stallion to toy with, with my seductive looks and beautiful manner. My eyes caress that dark form, enough that even the humblest of stallions would turn and blush inside their mangy coats. My quick-silver legs swiften to a gliding trot as I cover the ground between us, snow giving way to me. Carefully, I blink slowly, sweetly, purely, and I tilt my head just a touch. A voice, a husky, deep, sexy, gravel voice speaks; "Why, handsome, do you romp alone? I am clueless to why such an intriguing fellow walks the swamp of the dead with nary a mare to keep company with such a fine brute as yourself." I circle him, a shark preparing for the kill. Oh, he will be a fun toy to play with. Sapphire fire play within my eyes, and I savor the taste of excitement.

I flash back to the last stallion. He hadn't been humble. No. I can remember clearly approaching him, a beautiful, vain, beast, with neck clothed in ivory and a tail of silver. A body of golden clouds, a beard of deepest gold, eyes of honey, nostrils of pink. Wings had ruffled, white-gold-blue around his body. A horn of sweet yellow-white-blue thrust from his head, curving slightly back. O-ho, he had been a glorious catch indeed. I had played with him, whispered honeyed lies to him, sweet precious words like diamonds about our love. When he had bowed his head, ran pink lips across my white mane, I had thrust my horn through his, snapping off the last three inches of it. Delirious, he had fallen, and I had smashed silver hooves through marmalade flanks, breaking deep down, until he screamed for mercy. Then I had left him, for he was a broken toy indeed. I must've entered Helovia soon after.


Belial Posts: 33
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE
Demonchild wanders through the marsh, seeking the familiar beating of hearts beneath the heavy mediocrity of buzzing insects and dismayed fog, the stagnant stench of the brooding world which presses against his narrow shoulders and clings petulantly to dense locks of silver hair. He is growing, the brooding spawn of sunlight and smog, his mind and body twisting and bulging as it blooms into maturity, a dark labyrinth filled with shadows and flickering light.

He thinks the marsh might be beautiful, as beautiful as things are and can be. It stinks of death and glitters with decay, and as the demon walks he pushes suffocated rodents into the water, pausing until the slight plop of their bodies hitting the water recedes into the mist. What isn't there to worship in this catacomb? The fall of life, the work of nature and the gods to demolish all that had been and envelope it in the mist of shattered dreams and decrepit thoughts? This is pure, he thinks, a pure and simple sort of thing. This must be beautiful, therefore; and he stops to inhale it, closing his eyes, remembering, as he does, the salty and sweet scent of his mother, the only truly beautiful thing he knows.

He does not open his eyes as the sound of footsteps drifts to his ears, a firm and rhythmic bump, bump beneath the chirping of insects and the bubbling of restless sludge. It excites him, the recognition; it makes him tremor, and he returns to the world of vision, acute heterochromatic eyes peering into the condensed fog. The flicker of a shadow creeps through the corner of his gaze; like a snake he snaps his young head around, seeking it, condensation clinging to his mane greedily as he pursues the others who surround him. His throat catches the breath that tries to leave it, a sudden shock starting within his chest. He moves, and he is solid, a blight on this young earth beneath the bejeweled sky, heavy cloven hooves pacing the ground behind her. Could it be?

It is not, he finds, as they bloom into pictures before his eyes, not even close. She is too tall, she is too fat, she is too loud and crass. Her words are bitter daggers from an unpracticed throat, young whispers of an attempt at subtlety that crashed into vacant lots and burned in pathetic pits. A moment ago she had been beautiful, but now she was not, just a phony and a fraud indelicately careening through life on fumbling step, a bland and uninteresting fake who tried to replicate greater beings and failed. Besides, she wears the banner of a half-blood, the contemptible and false strands of equine blood dripping in a cascade from her corpulent rump. A final lie, a dark spot on a right fore, is the stone that seals her away forever from his regard. "I thought you were beautiful," he murmurs into the silence that follows her words. His youthful voice is plagued by remorse and wonder, betrayal that something so good could become something horrendous. "But you are only a lie."

The other, he does not speak to. He remembers him and knows him, this child of hell and harbinger of death, God's fallen angel and Satan's dearest spawn. The demonchild gazes at the ashen behemoth, and the liar in her malevolent cloak is forgotten and abandoned to rot beneath the weight of her own disaster. She is not important, the lie, but the corrupted scion is, and the lesser demon longs for his acknowledgement, even if it is only condescension and denial.

He wonders if his monstrous compatriot will kill the mare. He thinks he should like to see the liar die. It would be beautiful.

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Inaction stirred restlessness, scorned wretched holes of apathy and disdain, wrought detached, heedless notions lingering to heathen minds, casting a wicked glow in the indignant portal of specters, wraiths and demons. Treacherous banes and callous scourges, indignant and exposed, controlled and contorted the corrupted visage of abysmal, labyrinth conjectures, until he was nothing more than coiled machinations, simmering, smoldering concoction of brutality and derision. Ire, primitive and arcane, curled and seethed in the unholy fervor of his raptorial carnage, fed and split the runes of horrific oeuvres, convictions of primordial deceit, meticulous divinations, reticent crimes. In this resolute venue, where the earth was parched of serenity, where the realm was starved of virtue, where paragons fell to the slinking tides of scintillating annihilation, he was the formidable, the menace, the terror, the chilling, desolate, hollow heart poised in the flesh of sin, the feral, rampant decadence of intimidation. Brushstrokes of malice, laments of loathing, requiems of rancor, all contained, controlled, in the taut, minute motions of his existence, of his ethereal, deadly brutality – savored, devoured, consumed.

But the hush is vanquished, slaughtered by the choking, sliding hymns of a temptress, and automatically he is immune to her spider silk effusions. She warbled, spinning her web of lies, slinking, an asp, a viper, in the corridors of fiends and monsters, trying desperately to sink her teeth into his insides. A truly disgusting performance, where sanctions of strumpets attempted to display their wares, pronouncing white lies and screaming duplicitous villainy. She purred, layered the sentiments of her crude lips, of her vamp tongue, scorched seduction until any alluring veneer had been washed away, stolen by her arduous demands, by her husky treble. He was not beguiled, not enticed, nor attracted to the runes of her pathetic guise, of her ruined façade, the brush of a coquette, the toxic enamel of a gorgon, Medusa meanderings – too obvious, too pronounced, too pathetic. Wrapped in her childish veil, gaze pinpointed, roaming to his virile physique, to his undulating muscles, to his chords of nefarious damnation, she appeared all the more revolting, repulsive, and abhorrent. His poise, carved from iron, stoic and unyielding, impassive and ravenous, remained unchanged in the wake of her appearance, immobile reserve eternally impenetrable, untouchable, unattainable. The sweeping, piercing gaze of his narrowed slits rested upon her frame, and thought to swing her head from her nape, her tongue from her mouth. She didn’t possess wiles, she merely claimed aggravation: worthless, benign, trifling. A singular demand slipped past his lips, gruff, blunt, harsh, ruthless, the cold-blooded cadence of a rapier, a swift hiss, a haunting creed. “Disappear.” The briefest of warnings, uttered once, and never again, as the fuel of his acrimony slipped into his veins, sought the scythe of his necromancy. How many waves of his toxins could she endure? How many seconds would slip by before her scream spilled against the earth, muffled by the mist, suffocated by the vespers of his curse?

She is saved, for the moment, by the arrival of another from the haunting corridors and murky hallways, granting his attention to the brewing familiarity that still twisted his mind when he glanced upon this colt. What courted such amity from the strange child, of fire, of brimstone, of old worlds that no longer existed, of old legends that few could tell? What caused him, this Machiavellian behemoth, to stare upon the scion and remember so many things, wonder, ponder, other scarce ruminations? What existed in the fabric of the boy to incense this strange curiosity? The notion refused to die, boiling and brimming over the stoic features of Deimos, appearing all the same, aloof, apathetic, insouciant to the demands of some screeching femme and a bold youth, but so encompassed by the audacious affinity. And when the lad spoke, insulting the other individual in their midst, the Stygian creation allowed him to stay, quell in the muck and mire of heartless, ravenous cretins. Isn’t that where you belong? There was not a hint of dismissal, of death, nor heedless commands postured from his mouth at the spawn’s presence. Only the recognition of their former meeting, passed, but not forgotten. ”Learning again?” And what do you seek today – the knowledge of how to kill, how to massacre, how to slaughter?

Varath Posts: 45
Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.0 hh :: 3 Years HP: 63.5 | Buff: ENDURE
What do they do with your soul? Is it just lying there, busted?

Filth is what coated his charcoal hooves, and the expression on his handsome, pale face soured considerably. What miserable wretch created such a miserable place? The young colt had taken to stalking the distant group of unicorns after Mauja had left them at the borders from the Edge, and now the once proud group was scattered. Still, none of them knew his secret. None of them knew that he was a half-blood, doomed to a life of never belonging to either side. Varath's response? Throw himself into one, become one, and deny his equine bloodline.

However devious the imagined soul, Varath's heart and eyes remained untarnished with darkness. The colt precariously straddled the fine line of darkness and light while tauntingly dipping his hooves in the murky blackness of the wicked. Fear drove him to remain balanced, but he asserted himself like a confident brute, far too young to be taken seriously. A darkly dappled coat dipped in crimson with two, strange colored eyes moved through the muck, slapping his ebony tail at the humming flies. The sound was a cacophony of pleasurable chaos in his head, something to drown out the uncertainty.

Words of another hit is auds and ring with curiosity, and the bold colt shifts through the dense murk like a boy hunting a frog. Innocent and devious. The scene before him was far more adult that he was used to. A long legged, thin, attractive mare catches the colt's eyes first, and he cannot help but stare as her words filter through the fog. They were seductive and entrancing, and he caught like a moth to the flame. The stallion's response was brutal and dark, an image of his appearance taken shape in words. With a horn that long and cruel and eyes that strange, this foul demon had to be the one to emulate.

Not many moments later, brutal horns one a strong body makes his presence known in a crimson bath of beauty. Varath is overwhelmed by the wickedness, impressed by the display of violent grandeur. His words too denounce the seductive femme, and heterochromatic eyes blink curiously. Something strange moved the air around him, something frightful and dark. Ebony ears flattened against the arching crest of his neck, able to feel the affects of a draining sensation all too much. Quickly, rounded haunches launched his body to the side, creating a splash in the murk that gave his position away with more flash than his already bright, crimson markings.

A nervous snort escapes darkened nostrils, and he eyes the bay with a silent question. What is going on?

Tillas Posts: N/A
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{Sorry no muse :C You can skip Tillas' turn. You can just say she backed away pretty quickly.}

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