the Rift

All Out of Enemies [ Beloved vs. Erthe ]

Beloved Posts: 121
Aurora Basin Soldier atk: 8.5 | def: 10 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.3 :: Appears 6 HP: 62 | Buff: NOVICE
Orphan :: Ragdoll Cat :: None Bunnie

The night is draped dark and moonless over the land, and the bright, myriad dusting of stars overhead is all that gleamed in the mid-spring evening, but for Beloved.
Among the shadow she wanders, a stark contrast to the pitch about her, seemingly an ivory ghost walking through the open meadow.  To her back, the Dark Forest is an indistinct wall of black, capped by a jagged row of peaks, and before her, the Thistles sway in the midnight wind, abreast green, rolling hills.  Not far is the less haunting presence of the misty wood, to the north, and west of her; she knows it to be the land of the Moon, though Beloved’s way is to Kaos, and the shrine of bones, in the mire, far, far to the south.
Such wicked power within the malevolent Many-God, she thinks as she walks as she ventures, her traipsing steps accompanied by the song of her giggles; roused by her reverent delight at the thought of the bone-crafted beast the Murdered God had summoned, the one which had culled the grey mare, and struck others to the earth, too.  How afraid the Earth God had been, when he had told them to retreat; how afraid they all had been, but she, and the few who truly saw the magnanimity that had risen before them.  The fear of the Helovians had been ambrosia upon the air that had fueled her steps, as she had charged to the defense of her True God, the only one of these cheerful divines who knew the shadow within her heart.  She recalls it now, that beguiling terror inspired by his presence, and it lends strength to her course, as she returns to Kaos’ midnight obelisk, under the guise of night.
Chaos, the blackest of it, writhes within her, especially on such a night, when her head is all the more full of insane dreams of attaining her own throne which towered over the world, especially now that she’d been given a conduit of malevolent might to feed from.  What a pretty prize to take to her God, thinks the witch, when she lays her eyes upon a pale dove, walking too in the Moonless night, and what a coincidence, too, that they are so similar in appearance, both pale as the Moon’s widest face, and yet so different…
The demoness’ ears flatten back against her crown, her head lowering, and her steps elongating.  Attempting to grow close as she might without the prey’s notice, the wicked one charges forward when the time is right, her neck raised and arched, and her blade brandished before her, seeking blood.
"Boo!" howls the siren, her hooves propelling her towards the victim, her weapon striving to pierce the flesh of the horned dove.  Her chosen victim appears to be armed to the teeth, and likely blessed with magic, which Beloved assumes by the peculiar aura that seems to shine about her (the bitch unaware of the hybrid’s chilly blood, versus the warmth of the spring air), but Beloved does not care. 
She sees that their sizes are comparable, and that she, Beloved, is more sturdy, more swift.  She also knows that nothing has killed her, nothing, and that some girl with a bone bow will not be the first!
The pretty one has too many prizes to take to her Lord to pass up, such as her vast, snowy wings, or the trinkets adorning her pale figure; even in the midst of battle’s beginning Beloved eyes them, distracted by their shine, or practicalities, all the more covetous the more glances she steals.  A treachery of her own mind, to be sure, but the white witch either does not notice, or does not care, and continues to steal her eyes away from her horn’s aim as she stabs towards the hybrid once, twice, again, and again, to look upon the victim’s treasures.
The field upon which she has chosen to strike offers no difficulty to the dance of her hooves, and the cover of the trees is far.  Though her initial sweeps of her onyx striped blade are erratic, evidence of the state of being in which the pallid bitch exists, her second barrage is more precise; towards the joint of the nearest wing she lunges, her cackles eager to see red spout from an appendage which can no longer offer the stranger escape, if her aim is true.

1/3 | 739 Words
[ Traditional three round spar with a closing defense!  Thank you for playing Chan <3 
Setting: At the center of the Thistle Meadow, late at night, during a new moon.  Visibility is low, but the weather is otherwise clear, albeit a little breezy. ]

die like God, on the cover of time
Image Credit

Tag Beloved, please!

Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D

Blu the Bootyful Posts: 443
Administrator atk: 99 | def: 99 | dam: 99
Mare :: Other :: 5'7" :: 25 HP: 99999 | Buff: TWERK
Time limit exceeded. Erthe defaults to Beloved. Beloved earns 0.5 VP
 HP: 1100

Helovia Hard Mode

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