the Rift


i think my soul is inside out

Azulee Posts: 62
Dragon's Throat Warrior atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.0
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.2 hands :: 6 years :: Orangemoon HP: 65.0 | Buff: NOVICE
Valda
#1


And, somehow, here she is again; the native daughter returned to the land of her birth, once more a stranger in her own country. None of it is familiar, really, just traces of memories, like cobwebs clinging sleepily to the corners of her mind—groggy and unintelligible, as though she had dreamed it all. 

A woman grown, Azulee peers through the trees with bright electric eyes as though taking it in for the first time, deju vu making her feel dizzy. She holds her titan's wings tight to her flanks as they quiver in the cool breeze of birdsong, droplets of dew beading the kohl-swathed plumes. Cloven hooves tread absently onward through pockets of melting snow as the pale sun lifts its eyes to the still mist-laden forest, blushing as the darkness surrenders. Lightning child beholds it all with a certain aloofness, knowing well there is no one here who awaits her arrival, at least no one of consequence—there are no long lost sisters to embrace, or grand reunions to be had. Simply:

Helovia. "Hello, again," she mutters sardonically. "I can't seem to escape you."

At this point in her life, the young mare is desperate for something she has yet to find: for some notion of purpose, because then she might be able to make sense of things... Why she keeps the company of ghosts more than she ever has the living, or why she always finds, without fail, every shred of love she's ever known scattered to the wind. Perhaps some things never change.

ooc ; i am a bit rusty, bare w me <3

i've got your wild-eyed ways.


credits
 
hard mode—HP: 65/65

physical force and magic is permitted to be used on Azulee at any time provided it does not involve powerplay (unless specified otherwise); please contact me before attempting to kill.
please tag me!

Sikeax the Sea Soul Posts: 355
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16 hh :: 5 years HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Hobgoblin :: Common Rougarou :: Water & Seoul :: Plain White Dragon :: Toxic Breath Zuno
#2
sikeax
" i hate to think about you with somebody else
but our love has gone cold
you're intertwining your soul with somebody else "
Another place, another name, a different location on the map that holds a gateway to something that she can’t define or explain but others could write magnificent stories at the mention of what lays beyond the barrier of trees.
Now, at the ends of their control, the world she knows feels smaller. The feeling of insignificance settles in like an old disease, one that’s she held for years but lived in ignorance of, brushing off the symptoms until they scream in her ears that nothing is right.
None of it brings the crushing sensation of fear, or even hopelessness, sadness, things one would associate with this. Instead, it comes forth with arms full of hopefulness that says she can put the mistakes that she has done in her past, that there’s a world out there that will give her the opportunity to get away from what it is here.
‘Something is out there,’ the vastness tells her, uncertainty battling with her courage. ‘just for you. Come on.’
Hobgoblin unsettles himself in his skin, breaks free, finds something new, a change of scenery, anything different what he currently is and what Sikeax is becoming or just being, and turns away, back into the world that has its plans seemingly all figured out.
“No.”
Stated with a sharp blade, welded with his tongue and the ache of sourness, ghostly body fading into the undergrowth and trees. It strikes her in the place where it needs to be,  exactly where it is, and sends her back to where she needs to be.
She trails like a loyal companion. There isn’t a reason for her to go back into the belly of the beast, this one larger but less vicious, no more jagged teeth and burning red hot words to scorch into her, but with the ominous feeling of knowing. This beast holds a power that doesn’t know it has, and for it, she feels even more like a runaway as she twists and turns in her new lifestyle to avoid the discovery that it does.
Night swallows them up without words. She carries their torch into the darkness though beneath the firefly light of a thousand, even a million, stars and the neglectful glow of the moon, lazy in its position, far from the day and the world and everything else, avoiding because hasn’t that what it has always done, she would have been fine. The darkness has always been more of her home, far from the light after so long of her youth spent so deeply embedded in it.
Hobgoblin chooses not to care. There’s nothing in it for him. He knows enough about the endless night as is, or at least as much as he cares to know, and if Sikeax doesn’t shy away from the cries in the unknown and the sounds of living remaining unseen, then it’s just another thing that he doesn’t have to care for.
Just the way he likes it.
She’s the one who takes notice of the bird. She fits so well into the fading, deep blue hues of the dawn surrendering to oranges and pinks that she can’t help but admire for a moment, standing still in the snow as her hooves mash sinkholes into them that won’t last. Movement sweeps the dark bird's  mouth into motions that she can’t make out, and while she attempts to reprimand herself from it, she can’t help be caught up in it. Loneliness haunts her like an old friend. The comfort of constant companionship in the Throat, something that she thought she would never lose, has become her downfall.
“The trees and the snow aren’t going to talk back, if that’s who you’re speaking to.”
Distaste ridicules her momentarily. Her eyes catch Hobgoblin’s gaze with her mouth agape, just enough to suction in a small gasp of air, brows knit but raised slightly, cursing herself softly for being caught off guard at him.
Here she tries to tell herself that she will avoid others, turn to a more secretive lifestyle where there is less risk, but she cannot drag herself away from the comfort of company.
A damned creature of habit.
“Don’t. Come. We go. Ignore.”
She wants to listen so badly, but she’s already made the commitment.
I can’t.
Her thoughts are whispers, fumbling over each other as they race to him on the wind that doesn’t carry them gently, but nothing about Hobgoblin has ever been gentle.
“But if you’re looking for that, the wind and the sea are more than their fair share of talkative.”
“STOP.”
The seriousness of his warning lets her little gasp, the one mentioned beforehand, tumble out of her lips and back to wherever it came from. She doesn’t apologize for her needs though. She’s yet to have met a harsh soul in the Threshold, and now, lacking the allegiance of a herd, there is no law stating that she must give away who she is.
At the end of this, she can simply fade into the wilderness, melt away with the snow and leave nothing but the reeking stench of sea salt that has nearly become the smell of her soul, content that she has cared for her needs but ashamed at the lack of self-control, punished by her soul’s partner, like fate would have for her.
Like always.

OOC: so i didn't know if you were wanting her to go to a herd or not but i literally couldn't resist????? forgive me i'm sin.
hobgoblin is in his wendigo form.

BTW, if the text is difficult for you to read tell me and i can either adjust the size or switch out the table for you!
"speak"
image

@Azulee


you were angels,
so much more than everything

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


Syrena Posts: 207
Dragon's Throat Forger
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16.1 hh :: 7 years
Thelxiepeia :: Royal Rougarou :: Water Kyra
#3

i want to be wild, beautiful and free

Helovia has a way of digging it’s claw in and not letting go. For each, the reason is probably different, and the seal-gray mare doesn’t presume to know what keeps others here. Some, she assumes (yes fine, she does presume a bit) they simply like it. Others? Who knows. For her? Helovia has trapped her. Taken away her magic and her entire self without so much as a warning, dangling little tiny tidbits of magic in front of her nose to keep her here. Trust her, she’s tried leaving. Thinking that maybe if she just back tracked her way right out of the Threshold, her powers would come back. No such luck. She’s tried a few times, even going so far as to walk literally backward when no one was looking.

But it seems Helovia dug it’s claws in and does not intend to let go. So either she can wallow in self pity (a tactic she has tried for the better portion of her first years here), or she can deal with it and move on (a tactic she is trying now). With Birdsong finally here, the snow that has blanketed Helovia for too long finally begins to melt, leaving mud in its wake. While everything is still dead and brown and muddy, the Falls is still a rather unattractive place (though it holds some charm, the pools and rivers finally free of ice), she decides it might be a good day to visit the hideous place of beginnings.

Or a place of endings, as the case may be. You do not get one without the other.

Voices catch her attention as she wades through the trees, the sun still barely awake. Mostly, she’s wondering why she’s awake this early. But she is, and she’s here, the slop on the ground splashing on her legs and leaving blue and purple swirls on her skin, dotted with mud. She was almost looking forward to Tallsun, when at least it would be truly warm. Almost. But then it would be blistered and she’d hate that too, but there’s no pleasing her really.

The pair of mares comes into view through the trees, one of them familiar from a meeting long ago. Syrena doesn’t usually bother to remember passing acquaintances – there are many of them in Helovia, and she doesn’t care about them anyway. But she remembers this mare, because she remembers anyone of the sea. It’s what brings her to the group now more than the mare who’s actually looking for a home (though Syrena, of course, has no real idea of what’s happened in the Throat lately). But she offers a nod to both as she approaches, careful to keep her attention divided between the two, knowing this is what she’s supposed to do. Because, to be fair, the mare looking for a home might be worth her time as well.

“Sea Soul,” she greets the amber mare, “how fitting.” And then she turns her attention to the blue and black mare she does not know. “I’m Syrena, from the Hidden Falls.” Her voice is deadpan as always, though the sound of it like a song. It’s strange, the lack of emotion crashing about the lyricism in her voice. Then, broadening her attention to both, trying her best to infuse some semblance of humor into her voice, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the trees talked back.” Her effort, like always, falls flat. But it’s there, and she tried.

syrena

just like the sea

Image


@Azulee @Sikeax

Please tag in all posts
Magic use/power playing is okay, but check before serious injury/death
Image by Reli

Azulee Posts: 62
Dragon's Throat Warrior atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.0
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.2 hands :: 6 years :: Orangemoon HP: 65.0 | Buff: NOVICE
Valda
#4


The storm child does not, at first, take heed to the stirrings of a stranger nearby; she is too busy chewing on her thoughts. Her mind dangles on the vestiges of memories that feel ancient now, entertaining the disembodied voices of those who briefly came into her life and those who left just as quickly. Idly, she recants her first journey through these woods and what she found beyond them, when the trials of courage and adventure were new and exciting. Her wanderlust had been insatiable then; it took her far, and yet nowhere at all, really. Afterall, here she is again. If you run far enough, she supposes, you end up exactly where you were.

For the wayward daughter, it is neither nostalgia nor any sort of fondness that keeps her coming back. It is a debt she feels she owes. There are things left to resolve, and demons to be exorcised—a neglected child, deep inside her, to be reconciled with.

In the corner of her eye she sees motion, and hearkens herself. She lifts her gaze to regard the stranger with wide, blinking eyes, gaze shifting from the mare to the strange ghost-deer that hovers at her side, its pit-less red eyes boring holes into her. The creature reminds her offhandedly of sister's hellhound, the one who sang a mournful epithet for her father that day he stopped breathing. The memory passes like a pinprick, so far removed from her she wonders if it is truly her own or if she fabricated it long ago. She watches the exchange of glances between them with electric eyes, glowing fiercely under curling lashes. The amazon draws her posture tall, ears swiveling, like satellites having trouble picking up a signal. The golden woman's words pique her, and her annoyance bristles on anxiety. What right does she have to intrude on her musings? Her ears sow themselves into the dread-locked mess of hair upon her nape.

Feathers ruffle, waking blue arcs of static to crackle 'tween the plumes like a soft hiss. They shuffle restlessly against her flanks, gravity suddenly making her body feel heavy. She peers up to the gaping blue sky, wondering covetously why in the world she is down here. There is vulnerability in her frustration; the indignant, landlocked bird, wanting nothing more than to fly away from the obligations of conversation with this stranger. "Thanks for the suggestion, but that sounds like a terrible waste of time," says the lightning maiden—not unkindly, mind you, but not overly kind, either—as she shakes out her tousled locks, her wakiya feather sparking harmlessly.

Another voice causes her attentions to shift. Azulee sighs as she greets the other mare, nostrils quivering, but remembers her courtesies, dipping her nose a bit to the mare with a coal-grey coat. "Azulee, of Dragon's Throat—or, born there at least. Currently from no where in particular." The words give her heart a pained twist, charred lips doing much the same as they bend into a scowl. Azulee feels her gut burn with shame, the weight of it like hot stones in her belly. She must make herself worthy, she thinks with a woeful conviction; she is the fire-slayer's granddaughter and yet a voice in her heart whispers such discouraging things—of foolishness, of failure

Storm-painted shoulders give a curt shrug, dismissing such thoughts. 

I wouldn't be surprised if they talked back. More talk of trees. Azulee refrains from rolling her eyes, and shifts her weight from one hind hoof to the other.

"Maybe you should ask them their opinion on the matter, settle it once and for all," she says with sarcasm lurking behind thinly-veiled humor, mustering a half-assed smile that her eyes do not mirror. They'll surely make better socialites than me. 

ooc ; grumpy az :x

i've got your wild-eyed ways.


credits


@sikeax @syrena
 
hard mode—HP: 65/65

physical force and magic is permitted to be used on Azulee at any time provided it does not involve powerplay (unless specified otherwise); please contact me before attempting to kill.
please tag me!

Sacre Posts: 274
World's Edge Emissary atk: 5.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Years HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Inari :: Red Fox :: Heal & Ríona :: Common Kitsune :: Electric imi
#5
Hey, King of Fools a frown crossed over Sacre's features as he glanced to Inari, the red fox, who shot him a daring look of mischief and was contemplating whether he should take the joke further or leave the dust to settle rather than provoke this gentle, but gullible, soul any more. It didn't help that Sacre, for all his innocent exterior, was so easy to wind up, his impassioned heart held back nothing from his expressions leaving him exposed to the mockery of foxes—who were surprisingly sarcastic in nature. At least, that's what Sacre thought. Exasperation pouring from his lips, the Nurse gave Inari a hard stare "I don't know who you're talking to" he snorted, flicking his tail as he did so and increasing his speed in a show of childish irritation. Amused, the eldest of the two bonded scrambled after him, brushing his tail against the fox-boy's legs before scampering after Ríona, who had gone hunting, leaving the two boys to bicker behind.

As the world fell silent for a moment, Sacre continued his leisurely pace through the Threshold, the wind picking up his already tangled mane and curling strands around his blazing horn. Birdsong had brought warmth with and it was nice, sometimes Sacre would simply stand on the clifftops in the Edge and watch the sun set, wondering what the next day might bring. Incidentally, he was back at his usual trips back and forth between his misty home and the claiming grounds of Helovia and, as he rounded another bend, ducking under a low branch, the sound of voices drifted on the wind to his keen ears, a mixture of unfamiliar and familiar.

He moves quicker know, hunting down this secluded meeting of friends and strangers, so he could belatedly barge into it with his big nose itching to poke into more business that was, perhaps, not his own. 

Upon his arrival, as he grounds to a halt amongst the group of mares, he beamed a surprised smile at the amber mare, whom he had met a few times in the mountains as a young colt and then later in the Throat. Today, it would seem, coincidence would have them meet in the middle "long time no see, Sia" he greeted her fondly after Syrena had addressed her. He wondered if she still lingered in the Throat, he had heard she had been named a Sultana, he didn't know if this was still true and it had been so long since he had last spoken to Sikeax. He bobbed his head in greeting to the Falls mare whom he hadn't met before whilst wondering why the conversation topic was on talking trees... "Do trees talk?" he asked Inari and Ríona, who had arrived to sit next to his forelegs and were now shooting Sacre a sceptical look, shrugging in response. If they did they probably wouldn't waste their breath on Sacre that was for sure. 

For a moment, Sacre didn't know how to jump into the conversation as the subject of trees and oceans went completely over his head. Recently his visits to the Threshold had thrown up some intense conversations from a bone collector to grumpy old stallions to... Bhūta. Now, looking at Azulee of nowhere in particular and her half-assed smile, he didn't hold out much hope for this meeting either. Yet, still he jumped into the fray with his messy hair and good intentions, opening his heart to this former Dragons Throat child "I'm Sacre, also formerly of the Dragons Throat" at least he could relate there "but now of the Worlds Edge... What brings you back to Helovia? Can I help you somehow" he smiled with good humour, watching her sparking feather with interest for a moment before returning intently to her dark face.

on the day that you were born the angels got together
and decided to create a dream come true

yewrezz



dropkicks his foolish ass in
@Sikeax @Syrena @Azulee


There's something wretched about this
Something so precious about this

❚ Force permitted!
❚ Please tag me!

Toulouse Posts: 146
Aurora Basin Impersonator atk: 8.0 | def: 11.0 | dam: 4.0
Gelding :: Equine :: 17hh :: Six HP: 74 | Buff: ENDURE
Boomslang :: Green Ratsnake :: Paralyze Neverrmind
#6
toulouse


It was only in the quiverring of dusk and dawn that the serpent morphed into a spirit of a former yonderly self. Absently he paced the woodland without much care for speed or destination, a genuine thrum in his heart for the world he commonly cared so little for - the pulse of the wind, the beating of the sticks and branches on it's tide all created a mysterious symphony that evoked emotion most would think Toulouse incapable of feeling.

For one who's skin had turned from silk to chain mail the beauty of nature always found it's way though. Establishing immunity to sticks and stones and words that broke bones had not been a challenge for this gelding, but great beauties such has these were altogether a different story. Resistance to that kind of weakness was somewhat hard to accomplish in his experience.

It was as the sneak slithered through the threshold in one of these rare, yonderly, spirit-like states that the palomino came across a gathering. Still not realising he had in fact wandered so far from the central meadow, the curly-haired beau strode forwards to meet the growing audience. Whether or not he could actually be bothered to socialise on a day like today had slipped his mind and, almost instincitvely, the golden one began a slow and calculated approach.

“The trees and the snow aren’t going to talk back, if that’s who you’re speaking to.”


There were words spoken by a woman similar in colour to himself, a bright horn lighting up her countenance like a jewel. A pretty thing, but she was wrong. The sussurrus, urgings and the whispers from the trees was not a voice to be ignored. Messengers as old as stones they were, standing in their places for more generations than any could ever imagine. The trees were spies and they were love letters - If the power is possessed they could tell you anything you wished to know... a power he himself was not fortunate enough to hold any longer.

Another doe stood present, this one holding mutations remarkably dissimilar to his own. A hybrid perhaps? A siren? He had heard of the creatures as a child, the long-time paralian always frightened that he would be lured to a watery death by such a monster. This one, however, did not look so fearsome. Offering an introduction, Toulouse noted her name: Syrena.

The next he recognised easily from his herd; this was Sacre, a healer. The blood-marked fox boy reminded him of youthfulness in a way that didn't complerely floor him from irritation as most ludic ones did. In short, Toulouse did like him.

"Herd-brother"

Toulouse whistled his greeting to the onyx gent with a great sarcasm, one only identified by the smirk upon his maw. Taking his place on the near-side of sacre it was then that his pearlescent eyes found that of the subject in question.
The brontide of her wings in the cold, the psithurism of each ruffling feather against the breeze might make even the hardiest warrior shiver. A woman cloaked in lightning, shrouded in electricity. The vixen's magnificence washed over him for a brief moment, his eyes tranfixed upon her own as a brief few seconds counted before he finally spoke through the silence.
"Have the welcoming committee offered you a snack and a browse of their herdland's loveliest bouquets? I heard the Dragon's Throat has managed to grow more than one cactus this Birdsong"




the motherland don't love you,
the fatherland dont love you.
so why love anything?

the faithless; they dont love you
the zealous hearts dont love you.
and that's not gonna change.

ut deo.





art: © x coding: © x


scoots around the threshold
@Azulee
I AM THE KEY TO THE LOCK IN YOUR HOUSE—
DO NOT CRY OUT OR HIT THE ALARM
YOU KNOW WE'RE FRIEND TIL WE DIE—

EITHER WAY YOU TURN, I'LL BE THERE
OPEN UP YOUR SKULL, I'LL BE THERE
CLIMBING UP THE WALLS

SO LOCK THE KIDS UP SAFE TONIGHT
CLOSE THE EYES IN THE CUPBOARD

Syrena Posts: 207
Dragon's Throat Forger
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16.1 hh :: 7 years
Thelxiepeia :: Royal Rougarou :: Water Kyra
#7

i want to be wild, beautiful and free

“I’ll pass,” she says to the black mare who seems less than amused. This time, Syrena’s voice is flat, without any hint of humor. Her usual self, in truth. This mare, Azulee isn’t one for pleasantries. Which is fine. Syrena never has been either, hating the necessity of them daily. But she’s grown to be vaguely capable of remembering to introduce herself, to let the small talk roll on around her and to participate, at least a bit.

But yes, if you ask her, talking of trees is a waste of time. She’s not sorry when the electric mare doesn’t seem inclined to waste time either.

More come before Syrena has time to get another word in. The next one introduces himself as Sacre of the World’s Edge. She nods, but pays him no more mind than that. In truth, she doesn’t really care. She should, of course, but there’s already too many horses in this group for her liking (three’s a crowd, which had been her own damn fault, but now they were at four and just…no). He asks if he can help her somehow, pleasant and smiling to the mare that does not seem to be all that pleasant and smiling.

And then there’s another, calling the stallion from the Edge his herd mate, though not bothering with a name. She pays him no mind at all, his conversation being completely inane and figuring this was not the sort of group where she had to care about inane conversations. So she turns her attention to Azulee, her expression emotionless as always. It is not unkind, though nor is it kind. It simply is. A mask of indifference.

“I can answer questions, if you have any interest in the Falls. Or take you to see it. If you’ve no interest at all, I’ll leave you be.” With the remaining hoard of moths, drawn to their flame, she thinks, but at least Syrena wouldn’t have to stand here dealing with it if the electric mare couldn’t give two shits about the Falls. Which wouldn’t surprise her. Most didn’t.

syrena

just like the sea

Image


@Azulee

Please tag in all posts
Magic use/power playing is okay, but check before serious injury/death
Image by Reli

Sikeax the Sea Soul Posts: 355
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16 hh :: 5 years HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Hobgoblin :: Common Rougarou :: Water & Seoul :: Plain White Dragon :: Toxic Breath Zuno
#8
sikeax
" i hate to think about you with somebody else
but our love has gone cold
you're intertwining your soul with somebody else "
Things will never go the way that the mind wishes for them to, and Sikeax, of all the minds in this world, should be the one most knowledgeable in this. Logic, or Hobgoblin had warned her. And had she listened to his commands to give this up? No, because she is blind and has always been, regardless of how desperate she is in trying to keep the clouds away from her sky blue eyes.
The colour happens to draw them in like flies to a carcass.
They find themselves at the opposite end of wide eyes, Sikeax suddenly wearing the discomfort of this situation on her heart, so far from the usual interactions and driven into seclusion that now faced with company, she finds herself with a loss of words. Hobgoblin has nothing, but this is not out of the ordinary. Thunderbird, the name he has decided upon in his head and will continue with regardless of knowledge, has no specific points of interest.
But then again, he’s never come to care for those met in these woods. They are so little met that he cannot even bring them the courtesy of memory if they so happen to reappear later in life.
It is her actions that finally win the attention of him, and whether not she shows aggression or fear or any kind of emotion towards them in specific(for he can't tell; he has no reason to be able to read emotions), the expression that she displays is enough for him to discover purpose.
“Thunderbird weak.
There is the brief flashing of a memory of Amara in her head, bursting in like a firework igniting in the night. He envisions something within her line of sight, but not close enough for her reach, tempting Sikeax with mouth already parted into a gaping hole of nothingness, stepping forward before snapping it shut. Head-bobbing follows in pursuit. Humor runs through her like water in a river, empty, meaningless as he cackles his enjoyment into reality.
“Ignore him.” Stiffness herds the life in her words into a corner, strangles it so it sounds dull and soft, mother’s tone like she is telling one of her children the facts of life so they will carry into the future. A head cranks around at an angle so that what would be his muzzle is turned to her own, firefly light coloured in blood in endless pits digging further into her as they stare.
“You want company. Entertain.” There is a pressure to his tone that makes her physically scrunch her lips at him, who, with his careless attitude, chooses to ignore.
Their company’s choice of response leaves the both of them with nothing to move on. Lazily raised brows hover above blue eyes cast away, head turning in unison with her brother at the sight of a past choice of company.
Hobgoblin doesn’t remember; she doesn’t care.
Yet against how she tells herself not to, along with her brother, she can’t help but bring herself into the light at her title. It brings who she is back to the surface like it must gasp for air, having lost its ability to breathe underwater with her. She shames it just as Hobgoblin does, regardless of how he himself cannot breathe with her.
He’s willing to be hypocritical at any time of the day, any day of the year beneath both the moon and sun. It kills their privacy and transparency like an idiot with a gun, an untrained general with too much power and no care for the living, even for those below him who serve them with their entire existence in this world, their tie to life.
Just like Hobgoblin himself, careless.
Stones from mountains that climb the sky move to swallow the softness in her eyes if it was ever there, collecting the brows above them into storm clouds. “Don’t call me that.” Hard, straightforward, a small breath of emotion added in as her typically vibrant voice gasps for air, drowning, pleading with a distant, faded voice that says just don't, let me live this way.
“I don’t want to be reminded of how that came to be.”
There is no escape from the lack of ghostliness in the threshold. It functions as if it births this entire world to what it is, that death and anything associated with the absence of knowledge is sin. They pass names and homes around like this is the grandest of friendships, like they have spoken for hours on end only to discover that alongside one another they co-exist perfectly.
It ties a knot in her stomach. Hobgoblin snorts with whatever air that is in his lungs, if he happens to have them. She can't really be sure herself.
“No brains.”
She hates to agree with him, but exceptions have to be made. This won’t be an exception for the two making up her company.
Leave.
Urgency clasps the hand of the aggression in his voice. Together, they run unified fingers along the line of her spine with cactus needles etched into their skin, tipped with ice. She can’t make a lick of sense from it.
‘Sia.’
None of it is felt or acknowledged in her head as it happens, all of which consists of the following: a quick gasp that makes itself far too audible, the widening of her eyes until they can’t go any further and the speed in the movement of her horned skull, the surprise painted over the empty canvas of her face, because there stands Sacre, warmth in his tone that she has almost forgotten in the past seasons, ushering out a name that either brings forth fear and worry of the unforeseeable future or stress hugging comfort, just scared, because what if they know? What if they know that she is a sin, that nothing will change what she has become and that this is now her fate?
Instinct wails out of lack of knowledge that this is the time to go, that he doesn’t need to know anything. She can live her life out knowing that at least one of her childhood friends still loves her despite the horrors she has committed in the past.
“Sacre,” She must look like a bitch, now that she greets him so lovingly. “I missed you.”
“Don’t.”
Pain hits her like a freight train. Hobgoblin, the beast, the monster who slays and the one who used her position in power to make use of his selfish wants, is her logic, her instinct, her second, more rational brain in these moments.
It hurts just a bit more violently and deeply because isn’t that how fucked up life is now?
The final man is the one that sets her into motion. Hate is burning a hole within, all over the place but at the same time enclosed to one specific place, in that weird way that everything aches but somehow feels localized, as if to fit into her soul.
Wherever it is.
But she can’t stay here any longer. Her soul(now consisting of Hobgoblin) is on fire, her fears are alive and moving, breathing, taking in air that she could be breathing and hunting her down in broad daylight because she’s got nothing to fear in the dark anymore. The real monsters are living in the day now.
She’s got nothing to give, regardless of how happy she is to see Sacre and how much she wishes to spend just a few more seconds with him. This is all just useless.
Like you as a Sultana.
“NO.”

He is an explosion in hypothetical ears.
“You go.” Soft, because her pain is his pain, the agony of the memory of her time as a Sultana and the putdown enough to make him crumble into his own misery because in his head, Sikeax is the best Sultana he's ever going to know, and the only one he ever will. She has set every standard that has ever been for him without even knowing it, and while she'll never know it, she's the best thing in his this world.
But is it good to listen to instinct and logic when who is at the wheel of that vehicle is the embodiment of everything that she has strived not to be and always feared, glued to her soul so tightly that there’s no escape outside of death and even that can’t tell her what will happen without him? It is not to say that Hobgoblin knows her just as much as she knows herself and that she likes to lead herself to believe that she knows him in the same way but in a different sense, but it is in the end that there is one question left to answer: Does Hobgoblin have enough compassion and even love for her to do such a thing?
She can’t even bring herself to fathom answering that. He’s listening, and he’ll never own up if she puts it in her thoughts. The end of that attempt can be, and will be, as far as she is concerned, teeth and nail, dirtied up with her flesh in another one of their outbursts.
Let’s end this.
A spark of agreement ignites and abruptly fades in their shared dark room.
“I can tell you firsthand that there is nothing left in the Dragon’s Throat but a whore who believes a dead man’s cock is her right to the throne and a blind mob that will lash out at anything that they perceive as wrong, with or without logic. Don’t go back.”
Now.
“Now?”
Yes.


OOC: please just tag me when it's my turn to post! Sikeax will probs be leaving in this next post, but I can't be sure. She's weird like that.
"speak"
image

not tagging because don't know who's turn it is to post oohhhhhhh oops c':


you were angels,
so much more than everything

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


Azulee Posts: 62
Dragon's Throat Warrior atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 6.0
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.2 hands :: 6 years :: Orangemoon HP: 65.0 | Buff: NOVICE
Valda
#9


A bark of laughter slashes the air, bounces intimately against taut flesh and turns her nerves to steel. She can't decide if the wraith creature's amusement is directed at her or its soul-bonded, but either way Azulee poises herself. The storm-bird, all long limbs and rough edges, captures her strength in the instinctive craning of her neck, the hoist of ebon wings to half-mast. She knows her strength, the passion of the storm that paints her skin being the same which electrifies her veins and sparks through eyes of the same voltage; some sort of feral gene run rampant through her blood; a ghost she feels all around her. Or ghosts, perhaps—the ghosts of those who have left her to be alone in the world.

Ignore him.

The warrior snorts, obliging. She wills her attention to drift away in quiet condescension, to the mare with a coat of ash, a sobering hue in the company of amber and roan and piercing blue. The woman answers her remark curtly, so deadpan that Azulee feels a prick of bad conscience for her snideness. 
It passes quickly. At least they can move past the topic of trees, and this woman seems to share her sentiments. Her gaze lingers as Syrena dips her head in greeting to another.

And then it occurs to her: one by one, a welcoming committee gathers 'round like moths (only none of these "moths" have wings—those lovely appendages ruffle atop her back, and she is thankful for their weight). The Ardent's daughter seems to have drawn a crowd and she can't shake the claustrophobia that wakes tongues of static to lick up her heels and crackle through her feathers. They offer titles and exchange pleasantries that are entirely without consequence to this daughter of (Dragon's Throat? she could hardly claim that title, being the stray that she was) and she wonders what exactly draws them to her all at once. They would find no new recruit in her. Azulee knows well where she is going, having landed to make some of the journey to the sands of her birth on foot so her wings might rest, but now feeling the blue yonder above beckoning her. For a moment, she imagines herself up and flying away, leaving the rest of them far below. She is wild enough, but perhaps there is something to be gained of this gathering, yet.

And so Azulee observes and listens, slim black ears pricked forward—radar dishes searching for pings of significance amidst what she can only name trivial.

First, the black stallion with the blood red horn brandished proudly betwist his brow, bands of scarlet clawing at his eyes. Azulee thinks she may have met this one before, but... no. She's never met this particular blood-marked unicorn; the other called himself Voodoo, who also had a "pet" fox. Having little understanding of the bond between companions, it is strange to her that some choose to enslave other souls. Her sister had even done so. But as he mentions Dragon's Throat, the storm-singer smiles: teeth like lightning splintering a dark sky. This time it is much more genuine as she offers it to Syrena, and then to Sacre. "I have questions—" she begins eagerly, just as a honey-tongued man with a coat to match prances onto the scene. He is all flowery words, and his charisma is lost on her. 

She regards him cooly, neck arched and nose tipped downward, voltaic eyes and cryptic smile giving away nothing. To no one in particular: "What do you know of Dragon's Throat?" Perhaps this comes across as pointed, but she has never been one to dance around the point. She has many questions, but will take what can be given, and find out the rest for herself.

Her answer most certainly comes. The first mares voice turns to steel and there is no velvet to soften it, just cold accusation and a stern word of advice. Azulee's ears swivel back. Ampere flashes in her mind's eye and her brow furrows, recalling the meeting she'd attended years ago. It went something along the lines of the "Mother of Companions" scolding someone (she can't summon to mind) with idiotic shrieking and dire warnings. It makes her question what exactly she will find has become of the once great Dragon's Throat of old, the one her father General'ed under Kri: the mare who—in the eyes of a filly drunk on fanciful notions of honor and duty—seemed to be able to make the world bend with a stomp of a hoof. 

Don't go back. Azulee has never been one to take suggestion. For whatever loyalty the Ardent's daughter has to the land of fire and sun, she'll at least see for herself, not yield to the blind testimony of a stranger (and a unicorn, at that). She seems to recall Ampere's scolding having not been without merit. What'd you do to piss them off, she'd like to say. But instead, she unfurls her titan's wings, ebon feathers flushed wide, and with a great thrust downward, she shoves her slender form brusquely into the air, air bursting from beneath her like an explosion.

And then, she was gone.

ooc ; Azulee out. thank you guys for threading w me <3

i've got your wild-eyed ways.


credits


@toulouse @sacre
@sikeax @syrena
 
hard mode—HP: 65/65

physical force and magic is permitted to be used on Azulee at any time provided it does not involve powerplay (unless specified otherwise); please contact me before attempting to kill.
please tag me!

Sacre Posts: 274
World's Edge Emissary atk: 5.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Years HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Inari :: Red Fox :: Heal & Ríona :: Common Kitsune :: Electric imi
#10
Sacre 

His gaze softens on Sia’s face and if it wasn’t for the many surrounding them he would have asked her what had become of her, if she was okay and if maybe she wanted a trip to the mountains again for old times’ sake. However, the fox-boy couldn’t hear her internal turmoil that would have made him reach out to her in concern. “I’ve missed you too” he returned the genuine sentiment with warmth whilst remembering a time long gone and much missed. However, there wasn't a lot of time for more than that as their party of four increased to five on the arrival of herd-brother Toulouse and his confusing smirk. In fact, the more he talked the more perplexed Sacre became in general as this spy settled his taller champagne body alongside him and the healer watched him curiously. 

"Hey" he amicably returned with a friendly nod, his mind still half thinking about cactuses and trees. 

The peculiar conversation continued as Syrena mentions the Falls before Sikeax spills an opinion he wasn't expecting at all. He cast a concerned look over to her, his brows knitting together and now more than ever he wanted to ask what really had become of her. What had happened in the Dragons Throat? Apart from there being more than one cactus, that is. The Dragons Throat Sacre remembered was peaceful, active, a warm family to fall into. Then again, he had never really gotten that deep into desert life that he would know all the ins and outs of its drama. As Sia voiced her discontent and Sacre grew anxious, he roved his perturbed gaze to try catch the eyes of his friend "is it really so bad that it should be forsaken?" he asked with apprehension colouring his voice.

What's wrong, Sikeax?

As the seconds ticked by and the question about the Throat lay hanging in the air, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to think of an answer, not really knowing much about what was going on in the Throat, especially from the look of Sia's reaction to the mention of the southern land. Yet, before the fox-boy could think of anything, the lightning mare was already making her exit into the skies and Sacre watched her disappear without a word. 

on the day that you were born the angels got together
and decided to create a dream come true

yewrezz


There's something wretched about this
Something so precious about this

❚ Force permitted!
❚ Please tag me!


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