the Rift

One More Word and You Won't Survive [Rikyn Challenge]

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

For all the days he’d spent on earth, watching, witnessing, and processing the ways of those around him, the monster was still shocked by the amount of stupidity shown by those he’d once considered clever.
The latest display bordered on the absolute ridiculous.
He’d recognized the blur of sienna and gold on his borders, had seen it many times with the same boundless energy as his son, chasing after adventures, pursuits, flights of fancy, whatever managed to compel or divert them. He’d initially thought nothing of it. Perhaps the boy had been there to visit Erebos. Maybe he intended to regain status in the herd since his disappearance.
But the way he’d slithered, the way he’d crawled, sinuous and shadowed, stalking the grounds he once lived within…
The Reaper had never imagined, even in his distorted, infernal paranoia and protection, that Illynx’s boy would have attempted anything nefarious in the Aurora Basin – where he’d been born, where he’d been raised, where he’d been capable of carving a name for himself.
Then he’d reached for Sialia – and the chase was on.
Deimos wouldn’t allow it. The Basin had always been perceived as a strong, cunning, predacious chasm, a kingdom controlled, composed, in nefarious intricacies, in unwavering pride, in acrimonious turmoil. How dare this boy believe he could wander in and snag, snatch, and ensnare something, someone, of theirs! The impudence, the gall, the audacity was alarming, incensing, and infuriating, billowing along the zealous, bestial haze clouding his thoughts, his entanglements, his wrath and contempt. Where was his dignity, honor, or intelligence? Didn’t he know the way they marched? The way they persisted? The way they stalked their prey?
It would always be the Reaper hunting them down, one by one.
The King followed the youth on a monstrous battle hymn, limbs steady and unrelenting, crossing over their border lines in a savage crescendo, in a molten, ferocious rhythm. The ferocity, the frustration curling, coiling, and clinging to his muscles, to his core, to his soul, was a grating, unwinding set of sentiments and notions. Should his intentions be to destroy, eradicate, maim, twist and tear apart this silly, stupid delinquent? Should he merely unleash a warning, a proclamation, an exclamation, beat him until he caved, until he learned his lesson?
He pursued the smaller, faster beast along the Frostbreath Steppe, rampaging through the Tallsun heat, the melting snow, the craggy, rock formations they’d once used as shelter. The pain, the torment, the anguish could be orchestrated here – in a land both of them knew well, beneath an insistent, clinging sun, amidst the rush and acrimony of a plan distorted.
His voice bellowed across the horizon, a roar, a howl, a clamor, a rumble of his fury and indignation, his disappointment in a youth once sculpted from peaks and mountains. “What a foolish choice, Rikyn!” Still he came, carving his fervor, his disgust, into the dirt and soil, casting a callous whisper along the icy walls, the glacial structures.  “Your mother taught you better than this.”
Perhaps he’d overestimated Rikyn; believed him to be a perfected combination of the Engineer and the GildedBlade, forged along summits, along valleys, wise and arrogant, but capable; he’d always had enough talent to do something other than poach from his old herd. Maybe Deimos had been wrong all along, and the boy was defunct in every way: an idiot, an imbecile.
Looking at him now, a failed thief, a poor representation of everything Ulrik and Illynx had stood for, the Lord chose the latter.
But he wouldn’t catch him at this rate. The idiot would be long-gone, swifter than the titan’s muscled, warlord bulk, trying to catch some other unfortunate being. Another tactic was easily rendered; he knew his tactics, his strengths, his weaknesses, his power, sway, and might.
Ensuring he meant to carry out the punishment for seeking one of his brethren, the beast’s veins, form, figure, coiled into a zealous, brilliant, chaotic thrum; not one of death and demise, but of heat and embers, emblazoned, all-consuming, eager and fervent, ready for the fray. They twisted throughout his barrel, along his ribs, until they nearly engulfed his throat on vibrant, primordial yearning, the heady desire, the antagonistic rush of destruction and mayhem. His jaws parted, and three orbs of fire pulsed, pervaded, and persisted, rushed towards his opponent, attempting to singe his backside.
No one crossed the Basin without retribution. Rikyn should’ve known that.

[Deimos is challenging Rikyn to leave the Aurora Basin alone (no stealing from us) after his failed stealth for Sialia.
Setting: Frostbreath Steppe, around mid-morning, across from some rocks, caverns, etc, along an open plain of melting snow. Hot, hazy, humid.
1/4 posts + 0/1 defense. 740 words.
Deimos cannot reach Rikyn on speed alone, so he uses his fire magic (around 8 or 9 meters away from Rikyn) to create three fire balls, intending to fire them at Rikyn’s hind end.]


Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie


The summer that has stolen the emerald vibrancy of Helovia drove me north, to hide in the cool mountain passes from the Sun’s scalding rampage across the heavens. Irritation at the heat, and boredom at the lack of anything to do also drove me to a sudden, emotionally fueled decision upon sight of a dark, familiar mare. Sialia, her blue embellishments making her stand out even more than her dark coat does, became the object of what I truly considered to be a game; as I prowled along after her, I’d settled on trying to take the shining pendant around her neck; a real life application of all the things I’d been practicing. Into the shadowy edges of the world I’d slunk, hooves carefully placed on soft earth with gentle patience, my buck following behind me, curious as to what we’re doing.

He doesn’t get to find out.

My name rings through the mountainside, a familiar boom sounding its syllables. Disbelief lines my face as I look back to see the Reaper, a man I’d called kin, a good man, casting ignorant words in my face. My mother taught me better than this? What had she taught me other than to do for yourself, because others would leave, others would chose themselves? That others would, as he did now, betray my trust in them?

There is no room in his assault for any verbal defense on my behalf; I have time to turn and face him, golden eyes wide with pleading surprise. I was only practicing! I didn’t even take it! and I wouldn’t have hurt her! all lay at the tip of my tongue, swallowed down as his intent to use violence becomes clear in a sudden bloom of flames; the first ball narrowly flies by me, radiating enough ambient heat to send the free fringes of my dreaded mane aflutter. Duir darts away to hide in a nearby evergreen copse, gathering (mostly) from the magic pelting through the air that it would be unwise to linger here, and I try to sort out a thousand things in a matter of milliseconds. More poignant than the dull ache of sadness inspired by Deimos’ condemnation, fear rises in my chest, prior trauma flaring to mind at the sight and scent of fire.

Like alkali metals into water, my arrogance, bad mood, and fear blend into one catastrophic explosion; anger rises like a mushroom cloud, and I’m no longer frozen in place. I charge to meet him, as I’ve met every other opponent in my life, even those that might have killed me, stronger men, legends, and Gods…

I’d never thought it would be Deimos I’d have to defend my honor against, my history being a part of his own. He was not the great General I had always dreamed of defeating, though he was certainly experienced, and likely stronger, and more thick skinned than me for it.

The second ball of fire bursts against the bronze metal lining my left shoulder as I run at him, the metal hot and uncomfortable against my skin; embers spray about the impact, sizzling through my coat and skin before being quenched by my sweat, leaving a smattering of small burns around the protective bronze plate. The last collides with my chest, my chin thrown upwards to defend my face as a shout of pain breaks the air; the heat sears the flesh away almost immediately, clear fluids and blood trickling through the crisped skin. As it’s been every time I’ve met with fire, tears brim in my eyes; I force my blurred focus to remain on the Reaper, even when Duir’s piteous distress almost screams through our mental bond.

It’s agony as I charge, bidding the cooked, reeking flesh to stretch, and I’m not as fast as I should be; I refuse to let it dishearten me, however, using the sharp pain of each stride to fuel my desire to reciprocate. Into myself I reach, grabbing hold of the Spark I wield; trying to not sacrifice any of my already diminished speed, I hurl the magic at him with every ounce of willpower I have as the space between us grows short. Having no time to alter my course if it doesn’t work, I’m left with only the hope he’s left staggering, a victim to my magic. I angle towards his left side, where the rocky debris of the mountains seems lesser, and the shoulder nearest him is covered with armor. My gold tipped blade reaches out for his left in a swift motion, without any of the restraint I show friends; the glinting tip is angled to sever and slice. Not waiting to see if the strike is true, I dart rightward, hoping my greater speed allows me to pull away.

[ 1/4 :: 799 words ]
Uses this magic:
:: [ Magic: DarkxSpark | The ability to short circuit the electrical impulses of an opponent's brain, causing temporary loss of control over their physical responses. ]
:: [ Restrictions | Lasts 20 seconds in battle. ]
’cause we need a little controversy

Wishlist - Plots

Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Despite always applying action as his eloquence, instead of words, instead of phrases, there were so many things he wanted to say to the silly, insipid fool. It was too bad it had to be this way pierced through his mind. You disappoint me was another, curled in his cranium on a fierce, blunt echo, because he’d said it before, and the results had been brutal. Why did you betray us? was one more flickering and contorting across his membrane, but it held too much pain, too much torment, to ever give it voice.
The boy had been too entitled, too rash, too stupid – and Deimos couldn’t fathom the purpose behind his actions. Did Rikyn believe the Reaper would turn a blind eye? That he would shrug off the insult to his kingdom? That Rikyn had earned the right to snag and steal, clench and grasp, something from his old home? That it was okay to forget everything he’d ever learned from the Basin?
Why, he wanted to ask the idiot over and over again. Why, why, why?
There were a few scarce moments where the King thought the boy might give up, yield, bow his head, and apologize for his misdeeds. He would’ve forgiven him, as cold, as calculating, as chilling as the beast was, and they might have discussed what could be done, what could be mended, what could be solved from the wasted efforts and ineffectual thoughts. He hoped for it, in a quiet way, in the back of his skull, in the darkened denizens of his heart, where his chest still permitted a minute range of sentiments. He didn’t want to crucify the boy he’d seen grow up under the mountain sky. He didn’t want to condemn the child his son cherished.
But the youth turned back towards him, and he knew, he knew, there were too many pieces of Illynx’s stubbornness and fury in his figure to ever give in, to ever admit his errors and mistakes.
So they’d battle, two infidels who should’ve never been enemies or adversaries.
He’d teach the lad a lesson, and perhaps they’d both learn something from it.
The monster felt the fury roar back over him, narrowing his stare as the youth, with all his glimmering armor, with all his righteous, ridiculous might, sped back towards him. The flames had done their job, bursting along the boy’s chest (bow down, he nearly shouted) but not forcing him to cease and desist. Their brutality, their ferocity, their savagery was still on, pulsing beneath the heady, cumbersome sun.
His swiftness would always be a factor, something Deimos intended to disrupt. The Lord was bulkier, designed for war, for battle, to take on assaults and sieges; where Rikyn’s was coated in speed, capable of making sharp, curt maneuvers, cutting away, avoiding disaster.
Yet, before his mind could make any other chilling calculations, a strange sensation rattled his crown – sharp, charged, barbaric, and he fought to shake his head, to clear his skull of the residual pain, of the foreign phenomenon, but he couldn’t move. It was like Ophelia’s invocations, an invasion of the mind, and the monster tried not to panic, not to dissolve, not to root himself in apprehension or alarm. His breath came out in staggered segments, sweat curled over his nape, and his nares widened, trying to gain more air through the rapid, electrical wiring sliding through his brain.
Then, it was over, and he had the briefest of moments to stand there, befuddled by what had just occurred (could he still move his legs?), to witness Rikyn’s horn reaching for his left hind. Startled, not an emotion he enjoyed encountering, the monster tried to maneuver to the right, but the motion was dull and stupid, slow and half-witted, and the tip of the lad’s sword still prodded against his thigh, flicking off pieces of pelt and hair.
It smarted, but he didn’t care about lost fur. He cared about destruction and punishments, retribution and consequences, unleashing them to every beast that thought it was possible to take from the Basin.
The Reaper moved to the best of his abilities, gaining back the endurance, the fortitude, of his machinations; twisting back towards the left in hopes of annihilating the boy’s tempo. His intentions, savage and nefarious, were mapped and blotted out in frigid, glacial notions – attempting to brandish his horn in a swinging, disastrous arch towards Rikyn’s left stifle – yearning to slow, to puncture, to devastate the child until all he could do was beg for mercy. 

[2/4 + 0/1 defense. 758 words.
*As Rikyn nears, Deimos is overcome by his magic and cannot move his body for several seconds. Startled, slowed, and confused, he only has a moment or two to escape from Rikyn’s horn, and tries to swerve to the right to avoid it. Rikyn’s horn still managed to take some pelt off his left thigh.
* Hoping to impede Rikyn's speed, Deimos moves back towards the right, attempting to swing his horn towards Rikyn’s left stifle.]


Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie


As I’d suspected, his skin is tempered leather from all the combat he’s seen; though my magic leaves him standing in a stupor as I’d hoped, my strike barely scuffs his pelt. It hardly makes the painful dash towards him worth it, a truth that mocks me as I attempt to gallop out of his reach. The reach of his rapier towards my legs is expected, but the length of his weapon, and the agility with which he wields it, makes the task of avoiding it more difficult than it should be. Almost instinctually, a defensive kick of my gold dipped, right leg is launched backwards as I hop my ass up to avoid a puncture wound on my leg my centimeters, a counter-strike with very little hope of actually hitting the experienced General in the face. Though a good square hit to his chin would be nice, it serves mostly to keep him from immediately striking out at my backside again.

Distant, Duir’s pain nags alongside my own, his fear much greater than my short lived panic at the fire had been; it makes it hard to think, and makes me want to shout curses at the buck, wherever he’s hiding. This is not just some enfeebled old asshole like last time! We have no time for your weakness! escapes my thoughts as a pained snarl. An emotional lash strikes out at his already flayed soul, the intelligent buck gathering, from the blend of emotions I hurl at him, that he needs to put away his naïve panic so I can focus.

Snorting as my hooves meet the dry soil, I speed ahead before pulling back around; drinking in the slight seconds of reprieve my chest is loaned as I pivot clockwise to face the Reaper again, I can’t help but grimace as my hooves come back down. I keep my speed steady, gaze straight ahead, as if I’m going to charge down his side again, though I intend to pull away just before we reach striking range.

I let the anger at being underestimated time and time again by those who should know better thrive. I let it rise like a wildfire, let it devour the brittle guilt that quietly rustles in the corner of my mind; he’s your friend’s father, it whispers behind the roar of rage, he was your King: a good man, an honorable man, your self-claimed Uncle.

And may he be cast forever into oblivion with the rest of those treacherous snakes I’ve called my kin.

"Fuck off!" I bark at him with an instigating tone, and a full-of-shit smirk, as I dart towards the left in hopes of reaching a nearby cluster of pines; the sun beats down, the heat makes sweat slake down my sides in rivers, biting into my open wounds, adding the agony of the burns themselves. Occasionally, I have to blink the sweat from my eyes, the only consolatory thought being that, if I’m sweating this bad, the ebony Reaper must be about to die. My burns begin to desperately implore me to stop as I look for a good place to employ a borrowed tactic blended with a few ideas of my own.

Thanks again for the inspiration, mysterious, goat-looking jerk.

Sure Deimos is close behind, I fly into the shade, at last relinquishing the speed I’d relied on to carry me here. It’s now my wit versus his arrogant belief that I’m more easily squashed than handled with the dignity I deserve, the savage pulses of pain across my fire ravaged chest barring future escape through velocity alone. My canter falters from pain, golden eyes desperately searching for somewhere to lay down my plan…

Duir’s gold flash guides me; about time you’re useful. He’s gone by the time I break through the brush where he’d been; the very small clearing he’s found is fronted by two conveniently kissing pine trees, the clear area behind them obscured by their curtaining boughs. I dart through their branches, leaving them obviously shuddering behind me. Praying to my pleading muscles to hold out, I pivot around, tucking my body low just on the other side of their cover, horn angled dead where I’d just passed through.

With any luck, the Reaper’s chased me with all he has this far to keep on my tail, his warrior’s spirit goaded by the flight of prey; like I hadn’t when the old man had done it to me, I hope he doesn’t expect me to stop running at all. With a bit more of the elusive guidance of fate, the big brute will come charging through those trees, right into my waiting blade…

And if you hurt him? whimpers my conscience, drowning in my anger, and bitter selfishness.

I certainly hope I do.

2/4 | 800 words

’cause we need a little controversy
Also @Albrecht for his accidental spar tutor props

Wishlist - Plots

Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Deimos was not to be taken for a fool.
He’d spent years honing his skills, his trades, and his oeuvre to diabolical arts. While he was an inadequate politician, he made up for his lack of diplomacy with the ability to commit treachery, to act upon violence, to control and contort the venom in his frame for absolute vehemence. It was one of his only talents worth noting – and he was good at it, capable of brutalizing the world around him to protect his kin, his people, and his kingdom.
But this child, this ruffian who had hoped to sneak in and whittle away at their wares, at their inhabitants, was making him feel like a hopeless ignoramus. It was as if he was back in Isilme, flung across the tides, sinking into the sand as his sister laughed and told him to get up again. He was too dull, he was too irritated, he was too slow, his mind felt like mush and his sentiments were unraveling, torn and frayed because none of these events should’ve ever taken place.
So his initial reaction was frustration all over again. His horn missed its mark, a cutlass with no target, swinging, slicing, and slashing, at nothing but air. For all the Reaper’s experience, the boy’s speed was counteracting any productivity, and a new scheme would have to be concocted. The monster’s teeth clenched, his jaw tightened, and he attempted to settle the frazzled, fizzing notions still circling through his mind.
The icy slate of his gaze caught the sudden movement of the youth’s hind legs thrust his way, and he maneuvered forward, attempting to stay out of reach and away from the flying daggers. At least this portion of his motions were successful, and he managed to avoid the incoming flight of hooves and malice – but not the rampaging curse flying from the boy’s mouth, the antagonizing smirk, or the gleam of his mother’s rage festering behind his eyes. He dashed towards him, and the monster turned, ready for another onslaught, for a wave of soullessness to crash over them both – and then Rikyn turned, fleeing into the woods.
He stood, for a small matter of moments, in disbelief, blinking steadily, watching the child race off, perhaps into cover and brush. There’d been no surrender, no white flag raised and waved, no crumpling along the soil. He’d run away and hid.
Your mother never ran, he wanted to shout, dig in, hurt the boy like he’d hurt the King. It still didn’t pass through his lips, or reverberate through the clearing. Eventually, the youth would realize the error of his ways.
But he knew the stakes now: it was a predator and prey game, a ruse unfurled by an inept child. The beast followed, but at a moderate pace, not tearing across the loam, not beating war drums against the ground. He took his time, allowing the moments of machinations and energy to fuse together again. It was short-lived relief from the wicked heat and the sultry turbulence. The sweat still clung, dripping and sliding along his neck, down his chest, but he could ignore it for the taste, for the chance, of finding holes in Rikyn’s diversions.
His nares widened, following over trails of the boy’s scent, eyes noting the broken brambles, the crushed branches, the sticks and stones rattled and loosened due to the idiot’s travel. The piercing weight of Deimos’ stare slid over possible routes and paths Rikyn may have taken, where the youth might be lurking, attempting to ambush, run the Reaper through, stick the blade into his chest and be finished with it all.
But the demon hadn’t grown up fighting, maiming, and torturing to be felled now. Unholy machinations were in his blood, in his mind, churning and unwinding, brewing and boiling, mixing and coiling with a ferocious, nefarious fury. As he proceeded, hooves slowly following where he thought the boy had gone, towards strangely angled leaves, towards bent boughs, the weight of his demonic powers began to contort.
They were easily manifested – alluring and beguiling, a constant friend and foe to his existence, an enduring insurrection of death and indulgences. Rikyn must have known what he was, and still, he tempted him, he lured him, into assaults and sieges, into hidden wares and witless concoctions.
He was still too young to understand that the Reaper was never to be trifled with.
The noxious enchantments were dangerous and toxic, loathing and contemptuous, sliding from his figure in an eerie, eldritch march. The silent incantations of the devil slithered, crawled, and uncurled in pure, demonic glee, spreading out in the direction the monster had chosen, where he thought the youth might’ve lingered.

[3/4 + 0/1 posts. 786 words.
* As Rikyn attempts to kick/buck towards him, Deimos rushes forward and avoids the assault.
* While Rikyn runs off towards the woods, Deimos takes his time, coming upon the area slowly, checking over the surroundings for clues of Rikyn’s whereabouts, including broken branches, moved leaves, loosened stones, etc.
* Instead of rampaging into where he thinks Rikyn is, he uses his death magic, allowing it to spread through that particular area.]


Time the Dice Queen Posts: 144
OOC Account atk: 50 | def: 50 | dam: 50
Mare :: Other :: 5'7 :: 22 HP: 5050 | Buff: DROPKICK
Over 72 hours have passed with no posted absence.

Rikyn defaults to Deimos. Deimos earns 0.5 VP and the terms of the challenge. Please PM me if partial judging is requested by Deimos.

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