the Rift


[OPEN] Bold.

Ru'in Posts: 39
Outcast
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 :: 0 - Birdsong
Odd
#1

[Sorry. @Deimos or even @Hotaru ? LOL ]

The boy had seen more than enough to know that the competence level of the Basin's current weavers was non existent. Not only had he never even see Eldalala (how many lala's were in the name? Had he added too many? Not enough? Well, he dint' care. It proved his point exactly), but Johnny one prolonged thundershower away from melting.

Besides, neither of them could do what Ru'in could. None of them had an eye for creation like he.

And so, because the boy had never explained his ambitions to his mother - or anyone really - he had no idea that foals could not hold ranked positions. Surely, the boy thought, ranks were awarded based on merit. Normally, those who were older were more experienced and thus normally held the ranks, while foals grew and learned and only attained a position when they had reached the age of maturity. But why should it be surprising that the mutated child, already so bizarre in so many aspects and having already grown so large, should have outgrown this custom as well?

He wanted the position. He was perfectly suited for it. Thus he saw no reason why it should not be his.

Ru'in trudged slowly towards where his mother and Deimos normally called herd meetings. He wasn't exactly sure where he ought to be or what he would have to do to begin the application process, but this seemed to be a good enough place to start. Besides, the boy was more than patient. He would not shout or run around, but would methodically comb the Basin until he found the Reaper or his mother. Then he would state his case, obviously be agreed with, and become a weaver.

ru'in
These apartment walls are paper thin.
And no one is trying to listen in.
To hear our doubts, hear our whispered shouts: they don't care.
Image Credits

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#2
The Reaper watched his borders for hours, scaling and scathing rocky heights, devouring remnants of ice and discord, allowing his eyes to drift over an endless horizon towards the arch and steppe, then twist mercilessly along the only aperture, over and over again, timeless and bestial. With resilience, with poise, with eldritch abominations and seething motions, he thought to start the ritual again, ensuring naught and no one wandered past his gates without him knowing. There’d been nothing to annihilate, nothing to steal, nothing to savage, rip, and tear into for so long that he presumed during one of these vengeful hours he’d come across some requital, some resurgence, of old enemies or righteous missionaries, seeking to throw the devil back to where he belonged. But as he crossed, maneuvered, and toiled amidst the Tallsun decadence, naught hissed, sinned, or transgressed his sights. He was alone in his iniquity once more.
 
Eventually, even the continual promise of desolation irked him, and he wandered further into the middle midst of their vehement endeavors, piercing stare sweeping over the open grounds. There, down by the lake, appeared to be another unfamiliar form – at which he suddenly felt shame, because wasn’t he supposed to know each and every beast (he rarely did) that wandered and called his kingdom home? For a few seconds, he cringed inwardly, clenched his jaw, and flexed his ivories until they dug, uncertain and unreadable. A sigh wafted through his form, passed along the thin wind, and he began to maneuver his way towards the stranger, only allowing curiosity to become the primary twist in his gaits; roaming without the incensed corruption, the resentful destruction, or the heedless, marble malevolence. Yet, despite his best efforts, the motions were still all warrior, all King, all scorching, malicious annihilation.
 
But, on closer inspection, he believed the child drawn by fiends and devils might have appreciated the stoic sway, the indifferent demise, the unattainable fixtures he’d been bound within. The youth before him was unlike anything he’d ever seen – because beyond the painted designs and the horn structure, there were tusks jutting out from his mouth, much like a boar. The King indulged himself in a tilt of his head as he approached the lad, nodding to him in respect for a perfected set of future swords and upheaval (a fellow soldier could respect and admire a forged weapon, no matter the age or ignorance), stopping nearby, several yards apart, molding back into the land as if he were part of the stone, rubble, and ice. He had no idea who’d born this child, but the lad had Basin written all over him – strong, determined, on a mission for might and villainy. “Who do you seek?” He questioned, brow arched, savagery defined.
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.

- bg - table - art -

Ru'in Posts: 39
Outcast
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 :: 0 - Birdsong
Odd
#3

The king arrived, his pace seemingly unbothered and unhurried. The boy didn't know quite what to make of this, but stored the information nonetheless. He was not presumptuous, and so did not allow his mind to speculate. He merely took in the appearance of the Reaper with an objective, scientific stare.

Ru'in forced himself to stand slightly taller at the King's approach. It was not an aggressive posture, nor one that suggested that Ru'in was uncomfortable. Instead, the boy was merely miming what he had seen his Father do - somehow slouched shoulders suggested disrespect, while proper posture suggested the opposite. The boy couldn't understand how the positioning of his spine could possibly communicate these things, but he mimed the action nonetheless.

"Yew." Ru'in answered, his lips curling forward to form the word from beneath his rapidly growing tusks. The mutant's head dipped slightly, lowering his broken (and pathetic) horn low.


"Ay wish to bekum ah crahfter. Ay have nahtural ahbilities-" His deep speech was cut off as glistening bronze appeared in the air before him. It transformed into gears spinning seamlessly together, then to miniature towers, and finally to a small statue of the Reaper himself, before disappearing in a shimmer of bronze. "Ay am more capeubble than our current crahfters, and wud werk harhder."

The boy's chest had puffed out slightly and his chin had risen. Although he was born naught but a few weeks prior, already the mutant blooding running through his veins made him look older, for he was already quite tall and sported a beard on his blocky skull.

ru'in
These apartment walls are paper thin.
And no one is trying to listen in.
To hear our doubts, hear our whispered shouts: they don't care.
Image Credits

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#4
  He watched, waited, and listened, intrigued by the child who tried to stand like a King, like a warlord, like a powerful beast, ignorant to the dangers of such a stance, the responsibilities of such a posture. The boy’s words were a little muddled by his tusks, but the notion was still unmistakable – he’d been hunting for him, down in the ferocity and fury of the Basin, listlessly standing amidst the valley until he happened by. He’d known very few children, save for his own, that ever sought him out – he’d been dangerous and unattainable, the shadow on the horizon of their kingdom, only summoned by necessity, perhaps on a dare, seeing who could stand in his presence the longest without fleeing, without staring. Whoever was the victor tended to keep it to themselves, a small token trophy, gilded and gleaming, in their minds. However, he still admired the lad’s forbearance: he didn’t flinch, he didn’t shy, he didn’t run off into the hills, or call for his mother. There’d be strength and fortitude in him yet, solid, staunch, and stalwart in the midst of all the ice and snow (if he stayed, if he didn’t stray like so many of the others had).
 
Any expectations he had for the moments thereafter simply burst when the boy spoke again, declaring his intentions to craft, to be one more engineer amidst their darkness and deception. A small sigh nearly left the Lord’s lungs at the notion, because he knew he couldn’t grant the child’s wishes – not yet, not until he’d become far older than he was now. But his piercing, puncturing stare grew rapt, widened, allured, by the sweeping, magical pursuits the youth concocted, bronze swirling along the air, shifting into gear formations, small towers (where they could’ve all watched, staring out over the plain for intruders, for strangers in their lands), into a figurine he should’ve recognized as himself. “Most impressive,” he stated, softening the nonchalant veneer into a small smile, etched on the corner of his lips, to ensure he meant what he’d proclaimed. The skills were magnificent, and the lad would be able of doing a great many things in his lifetime, for whomever and whatever he wished. He didn’t want to burn away those ambitions, those aspirations, so many had yet to achieve. He didn’t want the boy to be spurned and disappointed, refuted, broken and tossed off because he simply hadn’t lived long enough to hold a credible position. How many of their herd had half the drive, motivation, and resolve as this tusked scion? Gently, as much as the Reaper could be, he lowered his great crown and stared into the child’s features. “How old are you?”
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.

- bg - table - art -


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