the Rift

[OPEN] of recoil and grace

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 the Reaper

the last of a line of lasts

Deimos had been acquainted with death since he was a child. He’d recognized its facets from the moment it drummed, beat, a quiet crescendo from within his soul, dreadful and barbaric, a sworn oath to the legions of demons and cretins forged far below.  So he knew when it’d come for him too.
Quietus had pulled at him weakly for weeks, combined with exhaustion, with fatigue, with irritation and exasperation, until it seemingly came all at once, peaked and pierced, no ebb, no flow – just savagery and peril. It punctured his lungs first – twisted and conformed, interrupted his sleep with a breathless, restless animosity. It burned down through his chest, where his heart still lay nestled on its pernicious, blackened, scarred precipice, rattled the chains of his vicious decadence until all he comprehended was corruption, all he felt was ferocity. His breath came in quick strokes, furious and emboldened, tightening over his neck like a noose, and from the corner of his fading eyesight, he could’ve sworn he saw the true reaper there, waiting at the gates of Hell to bring him where he truly belonged.
He fought against it initially – it was in his nature, in his being, in his callous, tenacious, obstinate soul to challenge, to defy. His bones rattled and his veins throbbed, his mind wandered from fixture to fixture, determined not to crumble in the midst of his final battle; he’d been at war for so long, he’d never truly learned how to hang up his armor, how to surrender his munitions. The beast, the monster, the cretin, pushed himself off of his cave floor, knees immediately crumbling, dragging him back down to the cold, lifeless surface, and he growled, stubborn, refusing to bend to the will of what he deserved. He had too many things to accomplish, had too many patriots to serve, too many armies to lead down the steps of triumph and glory, too many enemies not yet slaughtered. He was made of minatory allure and Mephistophelean discord, scathing, scintillating grinds of sedition – and it was one last roar into the flames, one more act of rebellion, that he should not die in the dungeon of his shelter, miniscule and shambled, weakened and pathetic.
He might’ve hissed, he might’ve rasped, he might’ve grated against all the senses, all the severed contortions of his membrane, because everything seemed to run together in a rampant, spiraling hellhole. The infidel could barely turn his head, the stupid skull whose crown had yet to fall, but still chanced a glimpse at the world outside his oubliette, marveling at the sight of rain at the end of winter – stretching out his maw towards the great beyond, towards the showers drifting, splashing at the end of his nose.
Deimos, she said; and he tried not to follow the ghost at the end of his gaze, at the flickering blue haze curling against the backdrop of snow and mountains.
Instead, he strived to think about anything else: the herd that required him, the protection he proffered, the caustic machinations he hadn’t been allowed to pursue, the apathetic world that never noticed just how much he’d changed, just how far he’d gone, just how many times he’d altered himself for them. In the end, that hadn’t mattered either, because the webs of his cranium reminded him that for all of his efforts, for all of his glory, for all of his shadowy foundations and being a weapon, a shield, a first line of defense, they’d be fine without him. They’d live on, and he’d be a scattered, despondent memory – a piece of flesh that had once only coveted anarchy and revolution, who’d harbored hate and malice and menace, but never to those who truly gave their convictions to the summits and the frost. In time, he’d be a forgotten legend, a fascinating myth to mock and ridicule, something carved from marble and ruin, a barb of cruelty, a tarnished, tainted, foreboding, and unattainable heathen sent back to the forlorn reaches of Acheron.
But, just once, he wished he’d told them he was proud of them – for all the things they’d accomplished, for all the ways they’d morphed, for all the beings who’d settled their bones, ash, and dust into the empire and made it grand for those yet to come. He wished he’d had friends, true friends, that didn’t flee or shy away from battle, that didn’t abandon him to other roles and fixations, that carved loyalty from the breadth of their statures and never forgot it. He wished he could see Illynx and they could’ve agreed on something in their lifetimes. He wished he could’ve met with Psyche again before her death, to beg forgiveness for being an idle bystander as her rights were taken away. He wished he could’ve told Mauja he’d been happy to be a sword for him (and that those had been some of the finest hours of his life – simply chasing down whatever enemy happened to be in their way). He wished he could’ve told his children just how blissfully happy they’d made him. He wished for so many other things that he couldn’t list or give name; the regrets and remorse piled against his heart and bled it dry. His breath rattled again, and he thought to call out, but no one would have heard the pathetic wail of a dying fiend.
Deimos, she called to him – again, down by the unfreezing lake, between the raindrops and the crisp, chilling dawn. This time, he followed.
The Reaper arched once more in antagonistic prose, every bit a piece of abhorrent acrimony, scrupulous and virile, guarded, hushed furor, the picture of a predator, an inauspicious creation dredged up from Lucifer sketches and stoic, eldritch titans. On the final portions of his strength, conjured from depravity, from carnivore rapacity, from the simple, eerie will to not dissolve, he maneuvered from his cavern towards the lake. He drowned beneath the wake of the showers, scarcely felt the cold, the rush of ocean fibers and dulcet whispers, clutched the last images of her to his flickering memory - Huyana, he breathed slowly, in and out, struggling to catch her specter as it danced over the water’s surface, like their son, an echo of her pride, of her joy.
There, he sank, down into the embankment, pressing his face into the dirt, soil, and dust, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves; her serene, tranquil voice the last few traces of sound reaching his ears. Come see the Tides, she said, and he nearly laughed; the Moonlit Tides were gone, far, far gone, her too, everyone vanished and vanquished, and he’d been left here to plunge his sword into flesh and to orchestrate bedlam in a constant, never-ending circle. It might’ve been an illusion, an image drawn from a fading monster, but he could’ve sworn he felt her lips caress over his cheek, one cherished, beloved moment between souls that would likely never meet again. He’d descend into Hell, a modern Hades to rest in the domicile of the wicked, and she, virtuous and tender, would return to the heavens, guarding over her flock of clouds and raindrops. Perhaps he’d been lucky with his Persephone, and she’d felt the tug of spring, the fall of winter, and rushed to be there, to watch him fall apart again –
Then his last breath came, and he could see the scythe swinging, and all he could think, all he could dream was Take me there.
And thereafter, he was gone, still and unrelenting – dead just as he’d lived, wild, feral, and alone.

image credits

Erebos Posts: 474
Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions & Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch Heather

Something was wrong.
The prince woke up with Orsino in his face, gilded eyes sizzling like hellfire, narrowed and suspicious, agitated and restless, hissing like mad over the onslaught of rain pouring outside their cavern wall. Apprehension curled over him, froze his veins, shattered his soul, and brought back a thousand thoughts over a multitude of possibilities. The buzzing over their connection was rasping and gnawing, pulling him from the floor, staring down at the kitsune as it muttered and murmured death? Death? like the cretin was puzzled, perplexed by the shapes and sounds of demise rustling along their door. So Erebos peered out the aperture, gazing across the flickering of dawn and decay, wondering just who’d fallen apart this time, narrowing his eyes at the motionless shape by the unfreezing lake, and his heart dropped.
He could feel it beating minutely, slowly, shocked, unraveled, unfurled, even as he raced across the land and slid along the rime, choking back cries and completely uncertain if his voice worked as he screamed Father? and waited to hear a response. He’s resting, he declared in an act of brutal, ignorant defiance, trying to make himself believe the words. He enjoys the rain, which was the truth, for it’d been like mother, gentle and serene, a glimmer of hope on the edges of corruption and deception. But there was nothing – naught a single sound from the Reaper, bowed against the embankment, covered in the cold cascade of the cascading showers, and the boy said it again and again and again, shouting until he thought he’d make himself deaf. He knew death – he’d seen it so many times before, painted on the faces of the perished and departed (sometimes his friends, sometimes his family), the ruined and discarded, but had never pictured sketched along his sire’s form.
“You can’t,” he said on a harsh whisper, defying the travesty even as it lay there, cold and cruel, because everyone was made of flesh and blood, even his father – but he’d always been so much more, larger than life, a beautiful, elegant piece of harsh marble and unrelenting stone, capable of wielding weapons and taking lives, smiling when he was finally content, laughing when the humor had been earned…
It felt like eons before he made it to the Reaper’s side, like he’d lived a thousand lifetimes in the span of a few moments, weathered and aged, brutalized and tortured, grasping for something else, a lifeline, a tether, to pull him back ashore. He sunk into the sand and dirt, the wet, damp soil, and lowered his head upon the great beast’s shoulder, struggling with what to do, what to say, where to go from here. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, with their last parting words full of you will be better and the scion just laughing it off when he should’ve held him, should’ve told him how much he loved him, how much he’d learned, how much he wanted to be by his side at all times and if mother would be proud of him, if sister would tease him. He wasn’t ready to live without his sire steadfast and stalwart, rushing headlong into battle for each and every one of them, plunging his sword into the bellies of their adversaries, stoically standing proud and tranquil, calm and composed, a monarch reigning in winter ferocity and unrelenting prowess. The Lord deserved so much more than slipping away in the tremors of the water, but the prince had nothing else to offer him except an all-encompassing love.
The boy buried his face into his father’s hide and simply wept, didn’t care who saw him, didn’t bother to shield himself from the onslaught of emotion or the tremors of loss. It ate at his core until he felt nothing left but shame and agony, clawing, ripping him apart, leaving him alone to the perils of the Basin, to the rising hardships, to the contorted coils of anarchy and anguish. Perhaps, worst of all, was that for all the times, all the hours, all the years, where he’d wanted to reach out and embrace the terror and tyranny that was Deimos the Reaper, he could only do so when the King had faded from life. He didn’t have any more words – they would only fall from broken, barbed sobs. For once, the little cretin was only made of tears, sorrows, and despondency, wishing for something he could never have again.

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Thranduil the Laurelin Posts: 598
Outcast atk: 5.5 | def: 11 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hh :: Eight HP: 77 | Buff: ENDURE
Haldir :: Common Cerndyr :: Dark Mist Hawk

They were happy. Which was a rare gift of the gods. But they were truly happy. Haldir sauntered from the heights, through the thick pines, trying his best for as long as he could to avoid the rain. But it couldn’t damper his spirits. He was home, his first home, the Basin, and the golden was away tucked into his Lady’s cavern. His bonded’s connection thrumming with contented happiness. So rare. So beautiful. And the stag was more than well aware he should enjoy this morning stroll, no matter how gloomy, for it always seemed the world hated these moments to last.


”Thranduil….” It comes across phased, and shaken. For the first time the gold reaches beyond himself to his bonded, but what he feels sends ice through his veins. ”Where.” It wasn’t a question. ”Lake.” He looks to the rosen damsel, one hark lingering back, but it’s the only sign he gives. “I’m going for a drink love, I’ll be back.” He lets it sound as normal as possible, let her linger in the peace that was ignorance a little longer. The golden then quickly grabbed his wolven cloak slips into the morning rain.

The scene was still quiet and lonely as the Laurelin came upon the lakeside. His earth eyes found Haldir, the dark stag standing as a sentry a ways off. His moon eyes found the gold. Even from this distance, the gold could see his bonded….shaking. His soaked crowned head turned back to the lakeside, where a darkness lay that even the golden did not want to face. Yet it was like a body laying upon death’s metal table, draped over with innocence, the Laurelin was drawn. It was so impossible. So not real…it had to be a mistake….Yet as he steps closer, the hand gripping the white cloth, he sees the familiar shape…and his stomach starts to knot.

Damn him. The crowned head shook, sending the water soaked treads scattering. Damn him. This day…this day was not meant for grief….with last night it should…it should be- but the breath catches in his throat. He had seen the Reaper…at the tree….he had seen him. Thought of speaking to him…as a friend….but said nothing. The jaw line of the gold trembles. Damn him. Breath halts in the gold’s chest and emotions and pressures, and sicknesses rise up which hadn’t risen in years. Death was a part of life. Death was and always has been a part of this life in Helovia. The murders. The battles. Midas.- All of them. And it was accepted as natural. It was supposed to happen, it made sense, but this…..Death was not supposed to die. The last creature expected to fall to its hand is the Reaper. The one always cloaked in its dark whispers and threats. He had seemed invincible to its siren songs.

The gold stopped beside the fallen, with the dark prince on the other side, sobbing. There last encounter had been full of gilded tongues and taunts, perhaps even the gold owed the youth a fair punch, but he couldn’t remember any more. He couldn’t remember anything else anymore….

Why did he morn for this fallen darkness? Why did he feel the weight of death as he hadn’t before for the one who so often he found on the other side of the war zone? …Why did he morn for the one who always gave lectures…or advice, rather than the powers so clearly at his fingertips? Why did he morn the one so often he laughed with at the judging looks? Why did he morn the stallion who’s approval, signaled in just the barest dip of the head, made his pride vault? Why did he morn the Lord who so clearly showed him, power did not fit the gold? Why morn the one who looked out for the gold when the world should have torn him to shreds? Why did he morn the creature who was ever a watchful shadow…ever the Basin’s other Wolven Lord? Because he was the Laurelin’s friend when he had none. And he’d never even known it.

Rain still fell with its great weight onto the golden’s head, running down his face and soaking every muscle. But he was glad. Perhaps it hid the tremors of grief and the very real tears of true loss.

“I’m…” sorry. But he can’t finish it. Slowly, with the disconnected motions of disbelief, the Laurelin reached to his chest. When he head comes back around, it drags from his back the hallow skin pelt of the wolf. For a moment, it hangs there, gripped in his teeth. His bare back now shivering with each cold drop. From afar, Haldir’s head rises, his antlered head twisting, confused with the disbelief of this action. Even the gold as he looked at the fallen figure, he hesitated. Deimos never asked for shelter. Never sought for the trappings such as the gold. Thranduil knew him well enough to know offering him such things in life would have been…wrong. For Deimos never sought those things, he gave them.

Well now, it was time it was given back. And the world remember what the Reaper had done. Had stood for. With the greatest of care, one so foreign to the gold, the Laurelin laid the pelt along the back of the fallen creature. His dark nose, tucking it and shifting it till it lay just so. Harks turned back as he paused. “He fought them…”  His voice trembled, but maybe the lulling rain would smooth it out. “That day, when these wolves attacked, he led the charge.”  Earth eyes finally lift from the lifeless body, to the one beside it. The one who also grieved.  “Ever the Lord and Protector.” What the gold couldn’t be…but what the Raeper was, even to those, like the gold, who did not deserve it. How young the dark prince had been….how many years ago….Earth eyes fall back, their gold sparks dead. “Ever the Wolf of the North.”  And my friend. The gold stepped back, and bowed his head. To the side, the dark stag keeping watch lifted his antlered head, and the mournful bellows rolled across the vale. Piercing the dim morning and lifting up the sorrows to the rain.

He had been frustrated to see the rain this morning. The night having been so wondrous. But now… the gold was glad for the rain, it washed away his tears.

OOC:: I'm going to go cry now....

@Hotaru - In my head this was after their morning chat?? If that works? But she's welcome to follow him.

[Image: 5381546acbe33]
Feel free to use any force/magic on Thranduil, short of killing him.
Please tag in every post.
Ask Thranduil any question in the world, he'll be forced to answer on his profile. PM with your question.

Mortuus Nox Posts: 187
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: Immortal HP: 66.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Mortuus Nox

The beast awoke to the cold fridged weather. Fire dimmed and crackled echoing in the depths of the cave. His scared pelt shivered with a different chilling eeriness. Cracked hooves heaved the beast up from his position. Stone cold gray eyes looked to the life flickering and roaring to keep the warmth in his cave. Demonic horns lowered pushing another log into the fire before stepping to the mouth of his cave. The footsteps echoed with ghostly like sounds. Coming to a halt and looking out into the Basin gray stone eyes looked upon a sight he thought he would never see.

The Dark Lord, The Reaper, and Heathen of the mountain laying on the cold, damp ground

Nox reached for his wolf pelt and flicked it across his velvet back. Hooves stretch out touching the ground that reeked of death. A sigh fell from his maw; this was not a good sign. The rain dampened the demons pelt has he started the descent towards the fallen soul. Ebony curved horns laid low to the slush-covered ground. His heavy tail dragged behind him, and his steps were in a manner that is not typical to the beast. Instead of the regular eerie haunting movements of his body, Nox moved with a solemn like step. His gray eyes remained upon the body. The Reaper who collected souls and killed with the touch had his own soul collected, ripped from his body, and sold to the devil. A heavy sigh fell from him as he came to a halt next to the golden one, his former Lord. The dark prince laid upon his father's pelt. Thranduil let his voice ring out it was incomplete and shattered by the growing silence. Gray eyes watched as the golden pulled the wolf pelt from his hide and paused. It was a long thought out pause before he placed the pelt onto the fallen Lord. Nox lowered his skull further to the ground in respect. This was not supposed to happen. The Reaper was feared by all, Death never dies. The Reaper should have never had his own soul reaped.He was the binding to the Basin, without him would they just fall apart?

The golden one spoke again. He talked about the hide that he wore upon his back. Deimos lead the charge, like the lead the Basin. “The one who gave everything to the herd, and expected nothing in return.” His great skull lowered and his voice spoke in a soft prayer. Latin words rumbled under his breath pleading with the devil to show mercy “Requiescat in pace. Et miserebitur eius, et somnus eius Satanam. Vivet Gravebind spiritu non obliviscantur opera montes. Haec mihi faciant dii et dirige nos misericordiam eget lacus. Amen.” His velvet ebony nose reached out and touched the shoulder of the cold dead body. Stone cold eyes opened as he spoke the last word ending the prayer and plea to Satan. Nox did not worship the demonic force, but he believed in life after death.

The rain continued to pour over the group standing around Deimos. A chill froze through the black demon's body causing his muscles to shiver. His gaze fell to the prince then the golden. “He needs to be honored in some way.” His deep voice rumbled quietly from his chest. Offering a suggestion so they would always to remember the greatest Lord the Basin would ever have. The Reaper would never be forgotten; he will always live on in spirit and hopefully in hearts of all who ever dwelled in the Basin. May Satan have mercy on his soul...


May he rest in peace. Let his soul slumber and have mercy on him Satan. The Reaper shall live on in spirit; the mountains will never forget his efforts. May the gods show mercy to the basin and guide us forward. Amen

Anyone can Die
Only a few live forever

image | coding

OOC:: :( RIP

Please tag Mortuus Nox in all posts
magic & permanent injury is permitted excluding death.

Enna Posts: 172
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4
Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None kels
caught in a dream i can feel but i can't leave

His screams wake you from your slumber.

Even with sleep still in your eyes and the downfall of the rain, you can see the panic pressed into the lines of his face, in the way that he runs, and you follow without hesitation despite the bitter cold that waits just outside, despite the exhaustion that clings to you without relent. At first you do not want to admit what waits down by the lake, even though you know the moment that you see the collapsed man, feel the chill of death, do not want to accept it as Erebos crashes beside him, as his lamenting cries reach above the downpour, as they sweep through the sleeping valley.

You do not want to believe it, and yet there is nothing that keeps you from it, nothing that stops the sting of tears as you follow to your friend's side, as you look into a face that you have seen a thousand times and recognize the stillness of death. Your lips part but nothing comes, and instead they press to the skin just behind Erebos' ear, your eyes washing over the body of the man that had been your protector, your Lord, your best friend’s father, and your heart grieves for him, knowing that you can do nothing, even for all your knowledge, all the skill that you have honed, knowing that he died alone; grieves for the boy that sits next to him, aching with each sob that rips from his throat, the discovery of death his to make once more.

You do not have any words for the fallen Lord, even as the crownless wolf returns from the wilds, seemingly unashamed in his abandonment and speaks, lays his pelt across his body, a quiver to his voice that you blame on the rain, as Nox follows with words you do not recognize and Haldir cries with the rest. You wonder if any of them knew him any better than you had when he always felt so incredibly distant, so untouchable and cold. Wonder if they accepted him as he was, if they knew the depths of his loyalties and recognized his love, however unconventional it had been. If they had ever loved him in return. If it is only his death and the way death changes some, makes them see what they could not in his life, that brings them back from the shadows.

Abruptly, you pull away from the group, spinning on thin legs to return to your cavern, grabbing the crown that months before had been woven with autumnal blooms of whites and yellows, though now its gray petals crumble at your touch. It is somehow fitting, though you wish that you had not forgotten, that you had found him on the night that you had made it for. You leave the one that was meant for the prince, turning back into the rain and down to the lakeside.

“I had made it for him and intended to give it to him during the Festival, a reminder of a girl who left flowers in her wake and the crown she had made.” The words are meant only for Erebos as you step beside him, ignoring the rest of the gathered, eyes tracing the lines of Deimos' face slowly, to make sure that you will remember in case everyone else someday forgets.

“I knew who she was to him before he even said her name, introduced her as his daughter; I'd never seen him look at someone like that. Except you. He seemed happy just to have her near.” There is a pause as you smile at the memory before you twist yourself away from it, your head shaking gently.

“But I never found him.”

It is said dismissively, your eyebrows knitting together as you reach to place the band of withered flowers atop his skull, a strange sense of regret penetrating your heart. You dismiss that, too, unwilling to indulge your own sense of loss, of grief, when there is a boy who had the last piece of his fragmented family (his mother and what little you know of her, his sister a ghost haunting the edge of sight, gone the moment one tried to look, his father reduced to a corpse, and still you do not know which is worse—clutching to hopeful unknowns or to see for yourself their demise) torn from him, and you gingerly kiss your King's brow, lingering for moments in final goodbyes.

“I won't pretend that I knew him, at least not as well as I would have liked, but I saw that he was proud of you, Erebos. That there was love every time he looked at you.” You slowly move from him to return to your friend's side, offering comfort when there is once more none to be given to the fracturing prince.

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< / 3

please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death

Johnny Posts: 161
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 13 hh :: 10 years
Jellybean :: Common Griffin :: Molten Dagger Sarah
sweet, sugar, candyman

I didn’t get it at first, when I saw a dark body lying still and sad voices on the air of those who had discovered it.

My first thought was ‘boy is just trying to take a nap and all these folks gathering around talking up a storm!!’ Like how rude is that? I was just working up the nerve to walk over and tell off all these horses for being brats when it started to click. When I recognized who it was lying on the cold ground.

Tragedy isn’t a colour that I wear very well, neither is sadness. They’re too dark for me and I’ve really never been touched by them before. I’ve never known anyone that died before (to my knowledge - little did I know the handsome fire-cloaked Gaucho I met in a dream once was also dead) and this was officially Too Much. I stopped in my tracks and stood there for a moment, watching those who had come, and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go over there and see Deimos in any other state other than living. Even if he wasn’t exactly the ‘frolic in the snow’ type, he still moved. He still breathed and scowled and all those other things that someone like Deimos did to fill up their day (wander? I don’t know).

If I didn’t go over there, I could pretend that he was still in the Basin somewhere, just out of sight, keeping an eye on us as he always did. He would forever be in the snowy shadows around this mountain home and I wouldn’t have to accept that tomorrow I would wake up in an utterly Deimos-less world.

So I turned around and walked away from the mourners as fast as my pink legs could carry me, green eyes searching around for something - anything to distract me from what lay behind.

Johnny has exactly 0 tables appropriate for a funeral
which is fine because he's happily in denial
[Image: Johnny%20by%20Aud_zpsi3ssx2s1.gif]
magic and physical force permitted at all times
vigorous licking strongly encouraged
please tag in all posts

Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather

Lena & Imogen

There’s a hollow empty sound coiled around her veins, and it drummed endlessly against her mind - too late, too late, too late - as she stretched her limbs and raced across the scenery. The rain dampened her sights, but not her head, because she knew the sad, somber wail of death, the way it drowned out the jovial serenades and just left a morose, heavy curtain across one’s membrane; an ache never quite fading away. Her healing endeavors would have no purpose here, and still, she came anyway, incapable of staying away when creatures were hurting, when the worst was unfolding, struggling to become anything more than a voice in prayer, a shelter in the storm.
Lena’s eyes adjusted to the scene and her pace slowed, trying to decipher all the figures, all the frames, nestled against the fallen beast. She saw the Laurelin (from where?), Johnny’s fleeing body in the cool mist, beautiful Enna murmuring to the dark prince, Mortuus and his reverence, and then finally to the collapsed form of their King. For a moment, she could only stand there in utter disbelief – he was a constant, a presiding figure, something she’d hold akin to the mountains, to the valleys, to the summits. As long as he stood, so did the Basin, protective, potent, and deadly, wiling away his hours across the vast snow, a moving piece of desolation, but someone, something one could count on – and in the weight and wake of so much chaos, so much destruction, he’d been a beacon, a pillar, to guide them towards safety and shores.
Another part of her understood that a piece of the auroras had been lost there, in the abyss of his last breaths and his vacant eyes – they’d all been a portion of the once-Edge, the original martyrs clinging to the steppe, to the frozen caves, to the wilderness as bitter, rancorous refugees. There’d been so few of them left in these parts – some, like Mauja, had gone back to the cliffs and the sea, some, like Psyche, had flickered away in torment and disgust, only to be found seasons later, gone but not forgotten. Deimos had been a piece of those lifelines, of those memories, of those hours that had long since drifted away. Hardly anyone there knew the stories, the agonies, the defeats, and she’d tried to pass them on as best she could with a crowd and a song, but it wasn’t the same without the enduring tenacity, the persevering pride. The Songbird realized she was one of the last ones to comprehend the stages of the Qian, Mirage’s blackbird desires, Kri’s vengeance and requital, and it was a sickening feeling, to be alone.
But she would honor him, for leading them, for cherishing them, for believing in them even as the days became more arduous, more demanding. She traced forward, quiet, incapable of saying anything worth the measure of the man before them, and bowed her head, offered silent prayers for his grace, for his homage, for his stature in heaven (because he deserved it, no matter the viciousness coiled within his frame). Then, she twisted her head to the snapping charm nestled amidst her tresses, only recently placed in the Giving Tree, taken back when the lights had dimmed, and placed it within a cord of his mane, next to the withered petals of Enna’s beautiful flower crown. It was a small gesture in a legion of faith and sadness, but she had nothing else to give.

Fault lines tremble underneath my glass house
But I put it out of my mind long enough to call it courage
To live without a lifeline

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Eldala Posts: 64
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.0 hh :: 3yrs (Ages in Frostfall) HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE
Capro :: Girgentana Goat :: None Goatfairy

ELDALA awoke to noise, commotion. It was not loud or joyous. It was quiet. It felt sad. She could feel the Capro's confusion as he stared out of their cave with his head tilted towards what he saw. The terrene mare yawned, puffing out fog. Her head thrust out of her cave, without care, and into the cold dawn of a new age she didn't yet know had come

Her life had been so full as of late. Finding out that her brother was alive and well, meeting so many new horses and handsome stallions, and even picking up Capro: Deimos had enabled it all.  Now though, as she looks out, the mare feels all the carefree warmth that had been building in her soul flicker out with the burning chill of a tundra breeze. Her hooves scramble against the rocky ground of her cave as she stumbles towards what had stolen her joy. She moves slowly, watching as others show up and recede. She watches Johnny run away, she watches the antlered one speaking to General Erebos, but she doesn't want to watch the corpse. Hotaru might have accepted her into the herd but it was the blackened stallion who'd given her wings. She hadn't gotten to speak to him very much. Fuck, she hadn't even gotten to thank him again after he'd given her the Weaver rank. Still, he'd felt like a leader she could put her faith, her love, her allegiance in. Deimos been an idol she worshiped from afar, never bothering him, for fear of upsetting his opinion of her.

And now he was dead.

How had this even happened? He wasn't even old. The grumpy old shit should have gone before one so young as the Reaper. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that the leader she wasn't afraid of, who'd been kind to her, who had noticed her was gone. Her lower lip quivers against the pain of the rain she's just noticed. How fitting that even the tundra would weep with them. How astonishingly warm an action for the frozen land to realize the loss of such a valued protector. Eldala musters a whimper and only the word "No" before she falls to the ground a ways from him, on the outskirts of the group. The wash of emotions overtake her as an avalanche of mud and snow. Pure grief mixes with the dark selfishness of self pity before the fear of the unknown answer to "What's next?" overtakes them in the slide. In the icy rain it would probably be hard to notice the tears coming down her face but they poured still, undone at the surprise of grief. She might have been having a good time recently but, overall, the mare knew their herd had been struggling. Their massive home had been holding fewer warm bodies each month. Their numbers were too few now. Hotaru had tried to stem the bleeding. Deimos had encouraged them all to work harder in his frustration. The stallion must have been fighting death, even then.  She wants to reach out, to touch him, a selfish impulse to soothe her selfish fears.

But she refrains. It wouldn't be right. The sorrow of a loyal subject would never be able to compare to that of a son or friend. Instead she wrenches herself from the wet snow and retrieves a bough of Coldtongue berries from her new plant in her cave. She walks silently back to the group, barely noticing Capro trailing at her side, the numb shock allowing her to only see that Enna was now gone from Erebos' side. She walks to her much-loved leader and drops the berries near his face before moving her nose over to Erebos. Eldala does not speak to him, she doesn't offer him hollow condolences or words that wouldn't do anything to soothe his soul. Instead, she tries to touch him. Her warm nose would rest briefly on his shoulder, a show of solidarity and compassion, before she turns back to the crowd.


Image Credit

Directly interacts with @Erebos

-Pixel by Niki-

△ All friendly/neutral contact is fine but no permanent injury/maiming/death △
△ Please tag me for everything you can, it helps me remember△

Öde Posts: 145
Aurora Basin Disciple atk: 5 | def: 10 | dam: 5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hh :: 4.5 HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE

He returned some time in the night.
He slipped into the hot springs to wash away the year of turmoil he'd reveled in, and then, shivering from the absence of heat, he'd pulled his wolf cloak over his back and set about to sleep. He awoke with the rain and the keening.

There's a noticeable weight when his head lifts and the world gradually bleeds into view between sleep-dusted lashes. It's a presence that presses down on him, contained within each droplet that burrows into his pelt, resonating with each cry that carries across the tundra. Öde wonders at it, but is hesitant because for all the wonder there is also an echo of familiarity. Öde is not familiar with many things, and from that list even fewer are good.

He rises on stiff legs and bows against the cold before setting off towards the dark gathering of shapes on the horizon. The snow crunches underfoot and the noise is deafening among the strained silence that creeps around him, shuffling to and fro like mice trying not to be noticed. Yet he notices it, this abnormal, stifling silence. It's that presence again, that weight of something poignant. Öde's teeth clench with an uncertain despair at it. He presses on.

The dark masses gradually smooth into the shapes of horses. Some he recognizes, others less so. His ears twist to catch the exchange of words, murmured gently, and somewhere a background noise of stifled sobbing. His ears flick back, nostrils flaring. He knows what this is now, why it is familiar, why it is so heavy on them.


He hesitates in the back for a while before he finds the nerve to creep closer and finally see. He already guessed who it was based on the stories passed. To know and to see are entirely different however. So as Öde's red gaze washed across the still and hardening corpse of Deimos, he couldn't help the strangled breath that left his throat. The Reaper had finally met his mortal scythe. Now he would await them all in the next life, guiding them there with the curvature of his sickle that was often mistaken for his crown.

Öde exhaled, feeling weary and utterly childish. Deimos had been a distant king to him, but something admirable and timeless, as grand and untouchable as the glacier mountains they nestled within. His passing was more than a horse's death - it was the end of an era, and the finality of us all, for if a marble monolith like him could fall, then so could we all.

Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, including death - no decapitating.
Be aware active magic doesn't work in his vicinity due to his magic!

62.5/62.5 HP
Helovia Hard Mode

Ru'in Posts: 39
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.3 :: 0 - Birdsong

So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down

Ru'in had no real business turning up at ... well, at whatever this was.

He was no active contributor to his homeland. In fact, it seemed that he and his twin had spent more of their lives exploring the world than they had in the Basin. His mother was the lead of these lands for Gods sake, and yet nothing seemed to tether him here.

Then again, nothing seemed to tether him anywhere. Not with Romina more often away from his side, than at it.


The boy huffed. Despite his massive size for his age, there was something entirely youthful about his expression, especially as it fell upon those who had gathered. Their solemn faces, their weepy eyes. It made Ru'in pause, and his gaze lingered a great deal longer upon Deimos' lifeless body than he might have guessed. He liked the Reaper, even though the man had turned him down in the past, when he had asked for a promotion. Though he thought being too young was a pitiful reason not to be given a job, especially when the Basin was in dire need of a weaver who knew what they were doing, he still respected him.

But now he was gone, and it was as if Ru'in was only just now learning what that sort of finality was really like.

The tusked boy exhaled, wanting to say something to impart his gratitude and appreciation for all that the Reaper had done, but found that the words felt stale and small on his tongue. It was Romina who was good with words, not he. But she was nowhere to be found. Not even his mother was here yet, though he assumed that he would be.

A small bronzey figure shimmered into life; a symphony of spinning gears and intricate pieces that slipped and slid passed and between one another. Ru'in wanted to create something to commemorate the Reaper but ... The bronze fell flatly on the ground, disappearing into a rust-coloured dust as the boy let his magic go.

He was no artist. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't even know how to grieve properly.

"Sohree." Ru'in mumbled through tusked lips.

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Cassius Posts: 46
Aurora Basin Haurspex atk: 3.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.0h :: 4 [Birdsong] HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE

»› C A S S I U S ‹«

He had no reason to be there.

No right, no privilege; no idea who had died – and why there might be tears that roll from their faces. So many faces that congregated together for one stallion. Hidden against the onslaught of the rain, depriving these souls of the one tether that had – at one point – pulled them all together. As it did now.

One last hurrah, that escapes the stallion clutching what remains in vicious sobs. For all is lost, except for the memories that bind them to the man who lays still – emotionless, heart cold and hard.

The gray lingers, bearing witness to the fallen king. Loved, adored by those who came and offered their blessings for things Cassius had had no part in. But they were all realities that existed, that bled for one reason or another – serving purpose and poise for their due account.

They were not lost merely hidden behind their mortal flesh. Captured somewhere, deep within them – that sang in hushed tones, and in the corporeal ghosts that arise unannounced.

Cassius realizes that a great leader has left this world, for another. He cannot leave without imparting some sign of respect, regardless of how meaningless it was to those who knew the man. But the stallion owes the stranger more than he knows; for the mountains that keep standing, for the cold spirit of the Aurora Basin that still beats in a thriving herd. Despite its stagnant status, they have all risen to hold the deepest of their treasures for one last time.

The stallion lowers his head solemnly for a moment. Before turning away, leaving them as they are – there is no reason to stay any longer.

He is not one of them, but perhaps he may know of the great things the King had done one of these days. Perhaps he could keep the memory living, despite the decades that pass, and the generations that flourish from one after the other.

It is a loose and lofty thought however, one that is easily dispersed with the beating of the rains. Steady, drowning and painfully poignant.


Hotaru the Valkyrie Posts: 295
Outcast atk: 7 | def: 10.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3hh :: 6 Years 3 Months HP: 67 | Buff: NOVICE
Alice :: Royal Hellhound :: Acid Brit


She is one of the last to arrive.

It's fitting, in a way that she can't truly put to words. When Thranduil does not appear after his soft voice caresses her ears and promises his swift return, her lips turn down into a frown and she steps forth into the rain from the safety of her cave. It chills her almost instantly, wetting her pelt and darkening the blush of her coat to a darker hue of red. The rain plasters her long icy mane against the curve of her neck, but it does little to deter her as she wanders down towards the lake. Alice hounds her on loose, bouncing paws, a silent companion as they follow Thranduil's trail to the east.

Did he run into someone? Hotaru murmurs contemplatively towards the bitch, who chuffs wordlessly for a moment in reaction. He's too sly for that, unless he wanted to be seen. For a moment a surge of jealousy overwhelms the Lady, but she flicks an ear and it's gone to be buried and forgotten until a later date. This had once been his home, his realm to rule alongside her and Deimos. Any nostalgia he felt couldn't be ignored or condemned on her part. Especially when she knew he would disappear soon enough, and she would have to say goodbye to him once more. Until an indeterminable time went by when fate would bring them back together.

Alice, pacing farther ahead, went rigid. The hairs all along her back went slick and flat, and her tail swept between her legs in a display of fearful submission that Hotaru hadn't seen from her since she was but a pup. HOTARU! the hound screamed in her head as she went racing off down towards the lake. The Valkyrie jolted, stumbling and racing after her companion down the rocky shores of the lakeside. It was clear where she was heading, at least - a group of bystanders edging in and blocking her view. Her heart pounded in her chest, fearing what lay at their hooves.

Who? Who is it, Alice?! Their state of mourning was obvious, their bowed heads and slumped shoulders too familiar to her prying eyes as she raced down the embankment in a shower of half-frozen gravel and mud that the rain had brought forth from the earth.


It was so fantastical and impossible an option that Hotaru nearly didn't understand what Alice was saying. That she had responded to Hotaru's question instead of announcing an arrival. What? No, that wasn't possible. couldn't be, could it? He had been in perfect health when last she'd seen him. The Valkyrie should have heard the call of his soul across the spiritual planes, begging her to shepherd his soul away from the mortal plane. He should not have passed without her scythe reaping him from the earth. I didn't give you permission to die, her heart cries in agony as she pushes through the surrounding bodies beneath the sheet of the rain to lay her eyes at last upon his prone, motionless body. It's not time, Deimos. This isn't right. I'm not ready!

She feels less like a Valkyrie, like a Lady, as she stares down upon his body. His corpse. Instead she's the young successor he'd taken under his wing, teaching her the ropes with a gruff, tough love that had helped her flourish into the Lady she was now. He had been there when Thranduil left, when Ashamin left, when Rexanna left. He had been her friend, her protector. Someone like a brother in arms, as she'd led alongside him proudly.

Hotaru had loved Deimos, and the fact that the word had to change tense was devastating for her.

Even though her son, her love, her friends gathered around...the Valkyrie stood vigil over the grandest warrior she'd ever had the honor of knowing. Head bowed and rain pouring against her spine. Alice lifted her head in a mournful howl that echoed eerily across the valley, singing until she had no more breath in her lungs a ballad of goodbyes. Perhaps the magic of the land would carry it into the ether where he could hear it, and know that he was loved and honored in death.

"Rest easy, Reaper. The finest this herd has ever seen." Her voice is low with the weight of her newfound solitude, but it rings heavily across those gathered. She will grieve alone, but for now she allows her tears to slide free without a single twitch of accompanying facial expression. The rain washes it away, but they warm her cheeks nonetheless. "You will be honored." Even if she had to beg and barter everything in her sleeves, she would give Deimos this one last thing. So that he would never be forgotten, exalted in his passing.

Watch over us, Deimos. May we not stray without you here.

This is no mistake, no accident
If you think the final nail is in, think again

[Image: 515265280ffff]

::Strong like the sea is stormy::

Please only tag starting posts, spars, and threads collecting dust!
Plot with me here!

Albrecht Posts: 249
Aurora Basin Impersonator atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 2.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1hh :: 19 (Orangemoon) HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Strom :: Suma Ball Python :: None Townsen
and strom

It feels inappropriate, his being here, slipping unbothered between the listless bodies, watching their grief fill the air like rising, dispersing heat. They've gathered to their pay respects, to say goodbye, to mourn, but the old stallion with the upside down mane? He offers no prayer, shows no last moment of hidden affection for the man of the hour. He simply watches, eyes hard and heart harder, a flutter of discomfort masquerading as annoyance splashed across his weathered features.

There's not enough room in his shrunken, battered soul to house one more measure of sadness, of pain, of loss, and who are they to demand that he feel that way at all? The Reaper was no friend of his. The Lord of the Basin showed nothing but disapproval and occasionally outright confusion at the old stallions very presence here in his mountains, as if mingling with his warriors could somehow devalue them, as if any word from his mouth during meetings classified as disruption, always drawing that hard line - either real or imagined - between what was his and what was not.

He stares down at the crumpled body, blinking once, letting the cold and the emptiness of the air fill his lungs, leave them, fill them again. Nothing has changed, he thinks to himself, glancing around at the streaked faces, the pursed lips, the swelling emotions that somehow fail to reach him. So for one last time the old stallion stands apart from the rest, a single uninvited guest in the fray, one useless, meritless shade stolen into the ranks of the Reapers minions.


Come take your piece of me, blood or bone,
No matter, I'll still be here when you're done.

image credits
[Image: 56c616e54affc]Rated M, R, NC-17, AO, 18+, NSFW
Tag dat azz!  @Albrecht
Violence & Magic okay.
Wish - Away - OOC

NPC Posts: 298
User-based Random Event
Stallion :: Equine :: ::


With a casual prominence, commanding without demanding, the voice slipped through the existing void. A place which lacked belonging, and yet somewhere which the entity that beckoned seemed familiar, event content with. Sound seemed muffled, suffocated in a nonsensical way since breath itself was irrelevant here. Even so the unmistakable tap of hooves crossing ground drifted forth, punctuated with the subtle sashay of hair. Along the way a figure began to take shape, ill-defined at first, as if too encumbered by a murkiness that didn't seem to prevail elsewhere.

"Deimos, the Reaper-" the voice pervaded the space once more, hauntingly nonchalant, but rimmed with a gentle familiarity that sounded almost, apologetic. It came on a breath that seemed to have been held for centuries as the words tumbled forth with an equal amount of soot, exhaled forcibly from the ancient king as all together he emerged from the darkness and the depths. Like a glowing ember settled in the pit of a fire grown cold, so Ignatius stood within the void like something of a beacon, something out of place in a way. Whole as every before his dappled gray form stood rigid in its statuesque quality, beard swaying gently as his head tilted to better eye his son. His sooty legs seemed to be swallowed by the midnight of demise, but in compensation that fire which still seemed to burn inside of him ebbed from the wrinkled edges of scarred skin where the flesh had worn thin and the inner light escaped.

"-You've come to the end at last." If there was sorrow in the rich timbre of the Fire Sword's voice, it was hard to distinguish, nearly as imagined as the splinter of delight that budded in an old father's soul. What they lacked in the world of the living, perhaps they would achieve in this finality of death.
A slight smile quirked at the edges of Ignatius' maw, an easement of welcome rather than humor. "You've done well. Now you rest."

Beyond the place where the corpse lay still and growing cold, Ignatius spoke these words, and moved to stand beside the freshly reaped Deimos, intent to guide him into the unknown which awaited. His presence was perhaps felt as a passing sensation of warmth, an usual feeling given the setting, but a testament to the flames contained within and the length to which the afterword had obtained him.
T H E _F I R E _S W O R D


Erebos Posts: 474
Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions & Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch Heather

He shook and shuddered, pleaded and begged, but nothing changed. The outcome was still death, still misery, still ruin, and as he laid there, across his father’s shoulders, openly weeping, the knife just kept twisting, deeper and deeper into his gut. He desired so many things, yearned to say so much, and naught could be farther away – his jaw clenched but his sobs were unrelenting, pouring from his lungs until he seemed to drown in them. The prince could barely glance up as others began to arrive, first Thranduil, with his words and his cloak, felt the brush of wolf fur clinging over his father’s lifeless form, protecting the beast that had always guarded everyone else. He might’ve murmured thank you, but it caught in his throat and tore apart his heart, ears twisting just a little more to hear the funeral dirges from Mortuus Nox’s lips, incapable of controlling and composing himself into something befitting a noble, regal stature – and he was still just a boy, just a small, stupid insignificant boy who wanted his father back. Enna’s withered petals, a crown befitting a King, settled over his figure, over his listless, languid essence, was nearly enough to send Erebos into condemnation; he looked them over and thought of Loth, gone too, everyone gone, gone, gone and he had nothing left to guide him to where he was supposed to go and the only thoughts echoing through his head were beating drums of inept, insipid tunes: it wasn’t supposed to be this way. He couldn’t picture himself without the great, noble Lord casting his all-knowing eyes towards him, towards the mountains, towards all the shapes and figures he protected and sheltered, a weapon to his men, a shield to his country.
And as they all stood there, crestfallen and sorry, he wished he could muster something, anything, other than a stupefied rage or an overwhelming sadness – but the bitterness, the rancor, distorted his bones and carved at his insides, and he was so angry, so cross with them. Why couldn’t they have said these things to the Reaper when he lived? Why couldn’t they have offered their blessings when he spent all his hours, all his days, tending to their mishaps, their misdeeds, their misfortunes, their great, falling kingdom withering and dying at their feet? Why couldn’t they have done something other than wag their crooked tongues and complain, charge their snooty noses into the air and whine about the most childish, nonsensical matters? He quivered and trembled again, trying to keep the wrath, the contempt, and the overwhelming depths of despair to himself, but it was no use, because he was weak and useless, ineffectual and ridiculous, and everything had changed for the worse. He thought he felt the scorching heat of something else too – otherworldly, ethereal, a vessel igniting beyond his shoulder, but even as he turned to look, that was gone as well, and the emptiness shriveled his veins, left him just as listless, just as lifeless, just as forbearing as his father had been.
“I can’t leave him here,” was all he could say, muster, into the crowd, a whisper flickering above the Reaper’s skin, the Prince’s mouth barely removed from it. He couldn’t remove him from the plain, couldn’t wash him away in the arms of the rain or the lake, couldn’t burn him to ash and soot and dust, like he’d been nothing at all to this god damned kingdom, couldn’t ignite him on a pyre’s edge. He deserved something better, but the youth’s mind was warped, channeled into mere grief, incapable of giving a name, a solution, beyond the granules of despair and desperation. The vivid slate of his gaze fell briefly to Enna, like a tether, like a lifeline, then flickered away, because he didn’t know where else to turn, couldn’t provide a single guide for himself or for anyone else.

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Larue Posts: 45
Absent Abyss
Filly :: Unicorn :: 13 hh :: 1
Death was not something the lemon drop had dealt with thus far in her candy-coated life. Aisling, her sweet and mischievous mother, had sheltered her well. And Johnny, her playful and carefree father, had done nothing more than nap a few seasons away. That was the closet the young tartlet had ever come to death: the temporary absence of her sire.

That quiet ache in her small, lemony heart was nothing compared to Erebos’s soft whisper that was magnified by decibels through the pain that reverberated through it. The filly’s pert, happy, tail-flicking arrival paused mid-brazen-step; her lemon-freckled ears perked forward and her mischievous teal eyes dimmed as they widened. “Wha—?” but her perky, curious question was cut off as her eyes hit the dark, still (—too still—), collapsed body.

Her head cocked slightly, gaze drilling into the Reaper’s body. Though the filly had never directly interacted with her leader, there was something permanent about him that her youth had created. He had been the leader of the herd she was born into. He had been present in the Basin for as long as she could remember—and as long as anyone else could rememberer (the undercurrents foals pick up on in conversations or off-hand phrases).

Her candy, lemon skin rippled as something hot flashed by it; her ears flicked towards the sensation, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. And her attention, which was usually volatile, was entirely focused on the Reaper and the son that stood alongside him.

Slowly, hesitantly, the lemon drop shuffled forward—so much youth still clung to her lanky body, especially now, in this mortal hour of unrelenting change. An uncertain glance was given to Erebos as she approached, her head softly dropping the only possession she held: the small vial of potpourri. Though it was a useless trinket, it was all the filly had to offer. And, as was with youthful ignorance, possession was the only thing she could think of giving to physically embody the loss—though she knew her loss was but a shadow compared to blue-stained man already standing above the fallen Lord.

“I’m sorry,” her whisper was small and quiet, barely audible. But she did try to lean her small, smooth, lemon-candy skin against @Erebos ‘s long, tall limbs in some sort of silent (uncharacteristic) solace. Her ears flickered uncertainly just as her eyes looked down sadly, not knowing what to do with this new, despondent feeling in her thus-far-impish chest.
sugar, spice
not everything nice


Please tag in all posts.

Enna Posts: 172
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4
Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None kels
caught in a dream i can feel but i can't leave

She comes on a breath of wind, pulsing with hurt, uttering sweet goodbyes, her hound crying as Haldir had, the dulcet tones hauntingly beautiful. You cannot help but wonder if she is the only one that had ever said such things when he was alive, the only one to have shared her love, in the time before it was too late to appreciate all that he was, and if that disconnection from those he had always served, protected and provided for had ever been a reason for his distance. You wonder, too, if he had ever known of your own affections and gratitudes, shown in the way you yourself serve, in the delicate petals that you had given to his flower crown in the middle of spring, with a girl who laughed like rain, who came only to leave again, and if it had ever been the same for anyone else—there but unspoken.

You had never known the paths of destruction that he had followed, the tendrils of war that still warped his heart until the moment it stopped; had only ever felt the presence of something dark within him when he had towered over you, a girl full of summer and youth, the day you had climbed in to the mountain's shadow, to understand the difference in him that kept him away. Perhaps the why had never mattered.

Only that it was.

The next to come, to delve into the trappings of decay and loss, the death of an era, is but a girl, a child—she glances to Erebos, offering him a trinket, apologies that could never touch the emptiness that the Reaper has left inside of him. You force a smile for her anyways, pressing your limbs closer to the prince, a constant presence meant to soothe, your slim body attempting to shield his from some of the rain. Looking at the lemon-drop of a girl makes you curious of what, if anything, she, and the rest of those too young to have known him, will remember of him as they grow, and if anyone would bother to teach them of all that he has done.

I can’t leave him here,

You flinch as he says it, as he looks to you, all crumbling heart and aching, trembling soul. You want to give him an answer, to save him of the suffering it is to lose something (pieces of his heart), someone (to be alone), but there is nothing and you know it. There had been nothing when it had been your daughter that had been taken from you, your brother that you had found, long after he had drawn his last breath. Heat floods your cheeks and your eyes sting as you blink, refusing to cry, for once not wanting to be the one that breaks when he is already destroyed.

You had carried the same sentiment as him, not wanting to leave them, unable to do anything else when hunger and sleeplessness had forced you away from the corpse of your brother, unable to bring your daughter back to the mountains where she would always belong, with you.

And yet it seems too simple a thing to just bury a king as you had buried her, to return him to the earth without ceremony, a slight to all that this one has done for everyone that he has protected over the years; too barbaric to burn his corpse and leave only ash where there once had been a man. You finally look to the others, their heads hanging, their faces wet with rain or tears, and it is likely both, and they are silent. Silent in the face of a single question, perhaps because of the finality of the task at hand, as if doing anything now will only make his death more real, and undeniable.

“We could make him a tomb; seal him within the mountains, so that he may always be a part of them, a part of the Basin.” It is almost a whisper as it breaks suddenly from you, quivering, your watery eyes flickering in an attempt to meet your stricken lion-heart’s, unsure of how he will take the suggestion, unsure of how he can take any more talk of death, any reminder of the abrupt tragedy that remains right in front of him.

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please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death

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
From darkness I understand the night;
dreams flow, a star shines
     I desire Evenstar.
Tiamat, of course, has always known of death.
And she has always accepted it (as a fact, as a part of the cycle of life; just as the old must give way for the new, and how winter must give way to spring).

...sometimes it is easier to accept something that you don’t entirely understand.

Something that you haven’t had to personally experience.

As the dawn rises to bring a new day, just as everything in world moves in this constant and eternal course, little does the mare know how her world will be shaken with this particular daybreak. Like the rest of the snowy valley, she awakes in silent ignorance, blissfully unaware of the turmoil and grief that lies in wait. And, like many things in this wild dance of life, the change comes suddenly. There is no grand ceremony, no commemoration to prepare the people of the Basin, and no carols of veneration to hail their dignified and powerful leader into whatever life awaits him next.

It just happens.

“It can’t be,” she barely registers the words as they slip heavily from her lips in a choking, bereaved gasp. He can’t leave us— her heart and her mind cry into the black void of despair, her soul thrown into a  storm of upheaval, and for as long as she can manage, she clings desperately to the numbness of disbelief.

What are these mountains without their king? What is the Basin without its lord? (Was he their corner stone, a foundation on which they can grow? Or was he their keystone, leaving them to crumble without his steadiness holding them together?)
These are questions that Tiamat has never wanted to answer.

With her eyes blurred from moisture and her cheeks wet with tears, the ocean mare reaches for the Reaper, breathing soundless whimpers across his cold, still face. “My Lord,” she pants between leaden breaths, slowly swallowing through the tightness of her emotions, “you will never be forgotten.” Already these words ring true, as manifested in the crowd that comes to mourn and pay their respects to their magnificent leader, and celebrate his memory that has shaped and grown with these mighty mountains.

Forever, he will be a part of their hearts—forever, he will guide them.

notes; My heart ;-;
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please tag Tia in all replies!
magic & force are permitted.

Erebos Posts: 474
Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions & Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch Heather

More came as he kneeled beside his father’s still, prone figure, some blending into denial, a sentiment he yearned to implore, dive within, wall himself off from the harsh reality sinking through his bones – but he can’t, because his sire deserved so much better than to merely pretend his demise held no meaning, no sacrifice, no challenge. He nodded to the little candy girl, with her potpourri satchel lingering, taken to rest on the long, drenched tassels of the Reaper’s blackened mane, restlessly proffering her with a “Thank you,” when he didn’t know what else to say, when he just wanted to crack, sliver by sliver, become a shard, a nuance, a piece of ash and dust.
But Enna brought him resolution, dear wise, all-knowing Enna – and he didn’t dare query as to how or why she could think, how she could proceed, beyond the depths of death, but he was entirely grateful for the notion, for the inclination. He hoped his eyes shown it, because his voice couldn’t, not again, not without crackling and falling apart, not without breaking down into a million, frozen little portions, swept into the foils and cascades, the rolling siege of droplets and storms. His gaze went from her to the mountainside, where a tomb could become more than just an area of remembrance, but of honor, of glory, of all the things Deimos had done, accomplished, aided, and safeguarded. No more than a second later, Orsino, usually scathing, usually cruel, usually harsh and utterly demanding, stole across the valley, running towards the summits, the peaks, the rising outcrops of bitter pathways and icy fortitudes.
Find place was all he said to the youth left behind, a promise between fiends and cretins, between bonded allies and misguided hearts.
Erebos tried not to cry again, tried not to echo one more volley of tears running down his face, mixing in with the rain, the soot, the terrible, consuming anguish. He strived, pushed down the bile coating his throat, the sorrow, pushing for fortitude and might, for deliverance and liberation when naught seemed to be in sight. So that he may always be a part of them, a part of the Basin; haunted, beautiful, poignant, lacerating him for far longer than it should. “We can do that,” he nodded, as if there was naught more to add, as if he’d presumed the role of assurance when none truly existed in his bones, in his veins (and he almost dared someone to think otherwise, to say no, and then he'd have another reason to burst at the seams). Everything wanted to wash away, wanted to run rampant into the lake, into the seas, into the air, but he couldn’t let it, because Deimos wouldn’t have wanted him to be this shallow, hushed beast, empty, hollowed, a void on the horizon.
So he lowered himself, shifted a broad shoulder beneath his father’s, and took the first step towards reclaiming the rites of the Reaper. “Can you help me carry him?” He asked the crowd (he begged, he pleaded), stare pointed to the mass, to the hoards of citizens his father had somehow managed to inspire, invoke, or incense, asking them to commit to the northern King’s pursuits one last time.

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Öde Posts: 145
Aurora Basin Disciple atk: 5 | def: 10 | dam: 5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hh :: 4.5 HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE

Öde hasn't given much thought to death, surprisingly. He understands it, accepts it, has experienced it, and even defeats it, but beyond that, nothing. What does it mean when he enters Oblivion's void, both living and not? Do others fall into such a space, if even briefly? Where do you go when it's your final time? What is our purpose to begin with?

Such things he figures are important to know and to wonder, but he's not sure it's possible to ever discover. Even he, easily walking between the two, has only received ambivalent answers. Mostly it just hasn't been worth it. You live, you die, and you do what you can in-between - he perhaps is equipped to do more, but in the same way others are bolstered by abilities he lacks. In the end they are but shadows cast off the gods, and so they move and dance and mime until the light is gone and their shape dissolves into nothing.

Still, Öde thinks of the passing of his mother, and how it shook him as a boy. The grave sight, meant for him, is marked with a strange tree. He visits it more than he will ever say, and as he thinks about it now, he supposes it's because of that tree. It has a marker, something tangible to tie a memory to, something to look at when you grieve and speak to when you hurt. A tomb, a marker, seems more than fitting for such a grand lord as Deimos the Reaper. That it'd be cut out of the icy mountains he reigned for so long seemed much more fitting than a gnarled tree too.

"Gladly, Öde intones as he steps forth to join Erebos in moving the lost king. Mindful of his horns, Öde leans down to use his neck and shoulders near Deimos' rump. He thinks of grabbing the tail so as not to trample it, but having never been this close to Deimos in life, and having only known him with dignity, it seems so very childish to grip his lion's length between his teeth, where the cold of the corpse would become more significant. Instead he'll watch his hooves, though he knows this will be no easy task.

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Magic or force permitted any time, including death - no decapitating.
Be aware active magic doesn't work in his vicinity due to his magic!

62.5/62.5 HP
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