"Where brilliance is good and madness is better..."
Helovia Info
Helovia opened in February 2012! We are an active fantasy equine RPG
Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.
Site Wide Plots
Kaos :: The Beginning of the End ☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.
Kisamoa :: A New Kind of Kaos ☼ - 3/2017 - Kisamoa asks Helovians to help him restore the Spectral Marsh. Which side will you choose?
Invasions :: All Out War ☼ - 5/2/16 - New layout and the brand new invasion rules are up! Thank you for your patience and we look forward to getting started with this new adventure.
The Rift :: Gods Do Die ☼ - 8/2015 - Helovia Gods are saving the Rift from corrupt gods! Can Helovians band together against these foreign deities?
The Literal Ship ☼ - 2/8/15 - Oh no! You have to pair up for Valentine's day!
Sky Island :: Murder ☼ - 10/25/14 - Vesta has been found dead on the island, and the gods have called to you to solve the murder!
Sky Island :: Peace ☼ - 7/7/14 - An island has appeared in the sky! Clouds carry Helovians from the Veins to the sky.
Restoration :: We Welcome the Dawn ☼ - 9/21/13 - The sun has finally risen on this day, giving the land new light, but the Time God and the Sun God have yet to be seen.
Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot ☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.
☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.
Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot ☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.
Doppleganger Plot ☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.
ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.
Cotm
Character of the Month for
June, 2017
WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!
Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.
The General kept himself busy, attuned, mind blank, focused on nothing and everything all at once – to cease and desist would mean thoughts would become riveted on torment, on vengeance, on death and demise. Instead, it was left perilously drifting between dastardly measures and conniving movements, staying several steps ahead of those he was accompanying, trying to decipher which road to follow, which path to take, which pebbled trail would lead them down to folly, ruin, triumph, or glory. The prince lined his motions with practiced charisma, with finessed charms, launching from frosted puddles to melting rime, bantering back and forth over the methods to his madness. “Patrolling our borders is a necessity,” he chanted, pausing to glance back at his companions, the legions of warriors he was set to train, waiting for some rebuttal, some quip, some snarky remark about the dullness of this current work, winking before they could deliver their snickers or taunts. “In these trying times, we can never be too careful.” The words slipped from his mouth with presence, with magnetism, with a bold, feverish fervor (because there was a part of him, sprung from youth, from exuberance, that just wanted to yield to the unspoken savagery within his frame and race across the grounds, not a care in the world) – but they were astute and accurate too. He didn’t want them going down towards the Spectral Marsh without a keen eye, without a notion of sensing danger, without precise calculation towards the kingdom around them. There’d been too much treachery resting in the unknown, in the chaos swirling between fallen gods and bedlam-riddles bones, monsters springing and rising from the catacombs, an empire meant to be severed, brought back to life by their own actions.
Erebos ceased his motions then, while they were nestled along the outcrop of fir and pine, standing amidst their fine troops like an ardent warrior, ready for the brink of battle, fervent for the fight, for the promise of foretold, darker days. His gaze swept over them, each soldier one by one, a bright, ebullient grin unfurled across his mouth, a force to be reckoned with for its allure, for its candidness, for the Cheshire sway. “Take a moment and look around the Steppe.” His black fox followed suit, lingering along the warrior’s hind limbs, tails lashing from side to side, a court of rebellion constantly fastened to his features. The youth tilted his head, ears turning, on the alert, on the brink of being riveted, of being fascinated, by their abilities to hone in on the possible peril, precariousness, or uncertainty haunting the poignant edges and fringes of mountaintops and valleys. His voice took a more curious turn, lofting and lilting it for everyone to encompass, to hold, to point them in their chosen directions. “What do you see?”
[Patrol for Basin soldiers and anyone else who expressed interest/wants to join! I'll be posting again in about a week's time. -wink wink- Feel free to be creative.]
Vertigo had begun to feel at home in the snow and, although her time in the Basin had been short, she felt the urge to roam. She wanted to make more friends, be more outgoing and helpful wherever she could. The draft wasn't quite sure where she belonged in the ranks just yet, but she was willing to try just anything to fit in. With a snort, her feathered hooves brought her deeper into these unknown lands she had come to find herself exploring.
The female had gathered rumor that some of the herd would be out in these lands patrolling. What exactly that entailed was beyond her, but again, the youngster didn't care. She saw it as an opportunity and Tiamat had encouraged her to step outside of her comfort zone. Well...this was one way to do it, right?
Halting for a moment, the antlered equine allowed her sapphire eyes to rake over the landscape. Tall pines and firs towered over her large frame, almost as if they were keeping watch of something themselves. Shaking her head, the mare moved forward slowly, ebony ears swiveling around her halo of a forelock. The vines entangled in her antlers tickled her ears slight, causing her to shake her large head again. In her effort to make herself more attractive and less beast like, the mare unintentionally caused herself some small discomfort. The tickling of the greenery happened more often than she liked to admit.
The mumble of a dominant voice reached her and Ve perked up in excitement. So someone was here, though if it was her herd mates or not, that was another question. Within a few moments, the vision of a lion tailed brute became clearer. From what she had gathered, this was the stallion she was to be reporting to if she wanted to help with the patrol. Though, quite honestly, Ve just wanted company and something to do in the slow, dull days that the Basin just couldn't provide any entertainment for. Why not make herself useful?
“What do you see?” She halted within hearing distance, not quite ready to make herself known. Of course, being a little late to the gathering, Vertigo had a feeling that was easier said than done. Her deep eyes looked around her, trying to see what exactly the stallion wanted them to see. All she could see was the occasional wildlife, though the beings were few and far between. Turning her attention back to the ebony equine, she noticed the matching creature lingering around his hind legs. She had to refrain from gasping in excitement at spotting the beast.
The youngster was encountering all sorts of new and unusual things in these lands. First Tiamat's floating beast and now, from her opinion, this adorable little beast. Her sapphire eyes sparkled with curiosity, though she remained silent. She'd let those who were more experienced answer the lion tailed stud's question.
"Talk."
I need you.
I don't know why, but every now and then in my life,
She does not worry about the path they travel. It has never been something that worries her. She wanders and weaves through this world, invincible (or nearly so) but for the day she finally chooses to meet Death once again. Instead, she watches the black stallion, annoyed. Not at him or this outing, but at herself. At the way she watches his movements, so very careful and practiced, she thinks. Deliberately laced with charm. And she thinks this because she moves in the same way, acts and talks in the same way. It is deliberate. It is a façade.
But why does she care what he is covering? Because he reminds you of Erebor, she thinks, Raven agreeing with her thoughts in emotion though not yet words. If she hadn’t come to the realization on her own, he would have found enough emotions to make her figure it out. She has never missed home, but he reminds her of it. Reminds her of the things she has left behind without a second thought. It had been so easy. But then again, they had left her too, and it had been easy for them. Should she miss them more than she does? Does she miss them in a way she doesn’t yet know?
And was that really all that appealed to her about her newfound general? She’s pretty damn sure Raven is trying to find a way to tell her No, from the emotions that course through him, and so she promptly ignores him, turning her attention to the ground.
Their General speaks, sounding like a broken record, like he’s said this a thousand times, and she wonders if he means the words. Though she thinks he does, because they sound true. Even she, the Princess who’d never had to patrol a border, knew that her mother’s army had done as much. She prefers being the one out patrolling, even if they are unlikely to find anything interesting. Soon enough though he sounds more certain of his own words, more excited, and she grins back at him slightly. That Cheshire cat grin that is so much her mother’s, but here is simply her own.
“Kaos and the God of the Spark spoke of other gods, thought to be dead. Can you tell me the story of that?” She asks as they walk, less because she cares for the story itself, and more because the story itself might help them understand more now. She is no historian, but she understands the important of knowledge, the power that can be found in words and stories just as much as within their ability to fight. Not all power comes from strength alone.
He tells them to look around the Steppe, and so she does, but in truth, she does not know what she is looking for. Not here. In this strange world that does not yet make sense to her. But of course, that is the purpose of this exercise, is it not? So she looks, finding shrubs and some footsteps and some evidence of what seems like a rather large beast. Though these don’t seem like uncommon things, and eventually, she comes back to the group. Another mare has joined them, and Weaver gives her a nod before turning to Erebos, “I see you. Should we trust you, in this moment?” Because she does trust him, of course, but if she were the one leading the exercise she’d very likely turn on them just to prove a point. After all, hadn’t Kaos done exactly that?
Following at the tail of the gathering, her head low and mood abysmal, the caged witch watches from her bars with malevolent glances, out from the black maelstrom within; still perturbed by the evolution of the leadership to which she was bound, following her General for the comfort of familiarity, and his lack of cheerful bounce, Beloved supposes she is also glad for the company of Yr’s Weaver, as much as such a woman as she could be glad for anything.
When the painted hybrid asks of Kaos, the white witch lifts her head slightly, tilting her eye towards the death-marked mare with a hungry curiosity. Does this one, too, know of the greatness of that heathen God? Beloved wonders, but discards, deciding that the stranger knows nothing, as strangers often do; barking laughter, her tail swishes behind her absently, her eyes glistening desirously.
"They killed him," she purrs, believing Weaver knows my this would make her voice break with such lust, such awe; she had not been here for his rising, but she had heard, how each syllable was a condemnation for the murder of His parts, "but again, he rose, from many into one, to crush those who denied his reach."
Her obvious allegiance to the horrible being in the Marsh should perhaps be kept better secret… but Beloved loves what she will, and feels no shame in its expression, cheerfully giggling as she reminisces on the sight of bodies cast aside by the bone beast with ease.
When they at last arrive, it is with vast annoyance that the serpent lends her ears from her inner dwellings on the Black God to catch the Boy General’s words, her ears and eyes rolling away when she realizes the blandness of the statements procured. What she sees are the mountains, the stones, the groves and clusters of trees which birth shadows and wicked things, and the yawning mouths of caverns which lead the eager adventurer into the bowels of darkness. She stares long, longingly, at those black, inviting pits into the faces of the stone, and wonders how many years she might walk them this time.
Would the child warrior seek to stop her?
"Caves, dark places, a labyrinth of black," she answers, her widened eyes watering with the want to lose herself within that frightful maze. Those wicked eyes roll back to him, narrowing, in appraisal. She thinks he might. Giggling at that brazen boldness, her lips slope into a wild, haunting smile, her head beginning to sway side to side, as she shuffles her weight from hoof to hoof.
you've lost your demon.
Tag Beloved, please!
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
02-26-2017, 09:24 PM (This post was last modified: 02-26-2017, 09:24 PM by Wessex.)
I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Well aren’t they just the motleyest crew of soldiers wandering around the Steppe with their fearless leader? Wessex brings up the rear, just in front of Beloved, a tiny white unicorn over whom she towers. But as she knows full well, looks aren’t everything. Looks are transient - she’s recently been forcefully upgraded, and lucky for her, it seems to suit the horned woman well. Her newest accoutrement is a lovely, thick lion tail, and though she’s still getting accustomed to the weight, Wessex does rather enjoy lashing it about like a whip.
It twitches now, ever so slightly in annoyance as the rest of the group is either silent, snarky, or just plain bizarre. An uneasy silence settles once Beloved makes her morbid observations, and after a moment Wessex clears her throat. Kohl-rimmed eyes turn upwards, and with a jerk of her head, indicates a couple of vultures lazily circling in the vicinity. “Carrion birds. There’s likely a kill nearby, and it could mean a predator is lingering in the area. It’s the birthing season, so there could be a pack, or a mother and its young, in which case, we should keep our young under watchful eyes.”
Her lips twist into a thoughtful expression, trying to think of something else. Ah, the silence. Her ears swivel around for a moment, before lowering her voice. “The smaller wildlife is silent. It’s either us they’re wary of, or something else.” And indeed, there is nothing in the air but Beloved’s creepy giggling, which enough to make her want to turn around and tell her to get herself under control. A loose cannon is a liability, and it seemed to Wessex that the mare had a couple of screws missing.
The male bear was hungry, was famished, and was still a little woozy from his lengthy winter nap. His own patrol hadn’t favored him in the least – food had been scarce high in the mountains, and as he tumbled down the steppe’s sides, large nose sniffing in nearby caverns, hovering over small bounties of woodland berries, he caught a whiff of something else.
Lord, he was starving, and there, just down over the ridge, in between the pine, was a small group of horses.
Normally he wouldn’t even bother with them. There were too many horns, too many enchantments, and too many boastful, annoying, vexing beasts lurking there. They’d likely singe or stab him, and he’d be left in far worse condition than before.
But there was one nearby, away from the horde, that perhaps he might have a chance of snacking on. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
He didn’t roar. He didn’t grunt. He simply moved his body, which felt like skin and bones, over the snow, over the earth, closer and closer to the painted mare (and suddenly she was much, much larger, but that didn’t matter to him, not anymore), widening his jaws, parting his great maw, and in his excitement, couldn’t resist bellowing then and there, intending to chomp down on her left haunch, paws trying to slash and tear and smack across her hind.
[The starving bear tries to sneak up on Vertigo, intending to bite at her left haunch and slash at her hind.]
At the very least, they’d yielded to his commands, spying out from across the void while he only wanted to fall apart into it, become laced and layered and lacquered with the ruthless polish of the earth. There would always be a contortion within him that was savage and sinister, cunning and immoral – but never to them, and the way Weaver responded, the way her inquiry molded itself to the ether, to the horizon, to the wood, harpooned its meticulous potency straight into his soul. He felt himself nearly crumble, shifting his stance so it didn’t appear as if he might break, features faltering to those days of childish wonder and abandon, overwhelming sadness and desolation, eyes rounded to a widened abyss, instantly lost, blinded, stagnant. He glanced away almost immediately, staring off into the trees, pondering why she’d said it, what he’d done to deserve it, or if he’d never shown them he was worth trusting. Maybe he grinned too much, youthful and buoyant because he just waned to do something other than endure loss and anguish. Perhaps they’d caught hold of his schemes and plots, his dastardly, Machiavellian exploits, and believed they’d wandered into the midst of his traps. The blue prince wanted to rescind and scoff abruptly, rebuke her claims, cry out into the hollowed empire of his deeds, of what he yearned and craved for them, for all of their souls and entities and figures, but pondered if it would fall on deaf ears, if it would carry any meaning at all. He’d have to supply the response with action instead of argument, with deliverance, with liberation, with strength and accord, the way his sire had always done (protecting, defying, upholding sedition and decadence for the good of his herd). So, he waited for several moments, allowing the inquiry to pass over his gallant heart one more time, sear it, splice it, splinter it away, before glancing back to Weaver and her wings. “Have I given you a reason not to trust me?” He hoped his voice didn’t carry the weight of his dejection, didn’t waver, didn’t falter, didn’t trip or stumble, aiming to pinpoint it with strength and tenacity, with a persevering force truly simmering through his bones.
Then his ears flickered to Beloved, who took firm hold of Weaver’s prior questions and spun her story of Kaos with an eerie reverence – perhaps she kneeled at his bony shrine when she wasn’t upholding Erebos’ commands – centering her modicums of warfare upon condemnation and iniquity. The General watched her then, narrowed his eyes briefly, mind skimming and toiling with all the possibilities of Beloved and her eldritch estate, if her mind was whole, if her body was in tact, if she came from the underworld, a demon’s mistress spat out from its unholy vessels. He did nothing else about it, however, didn’t respond to her adoration and glorification of a beast who’d only deceived and murdered, because a portion of him felt he couldn’t deny or refute her worship of another god. Maybe in another time, another place, he too would’ve been inspired and incensed by the measure of Kaos’ cunning, the fortitude, the might, the obvious savagery, but he’d been born between mountains and ridges, caverns and glaciers, and had already pledged his life to so many.
But he granted Weaver another version of the tale too, in hopes she could arrive at her own conclusions (trying not to forget the weight her words held on him, the sword she’d stuck in his chest). “Several seasons ago there were different creatures coming to Helovia from the Rift.” The concept was still foreign to him, a little out of touch; he’d been too young to completely fathom and understand all the rich colors and dazzling sights, too consumed and amused by the exposure of new kingdoms and lands. “Our Gods brought them, along with some of their terrain, here. But monsters, demons, and deities came too.” He remembered the rush, the nefariousness, the embodiment of power and majesty, of fortitude and might, when he and his friends had all claimed the madness too, joined in the slaughter, vowing to protect and uphold what they couldn’t comprehend. “We thought they’d all fallen under our assaults, but Kaos ended up forging them together again.” There he stopped, nodding, hoping to have filled in the gaps, eyes staring back into the copse, into the snow, into the world.
The General’s attention turned to Wessex briefly, bobbing his head in agreement with her discernments. Maybe there was something out there, big and deadly, potent and lethal, and they were sitting ducks, awaiting the inevitable. At least she had the regard not to set him ablaze with scorn, with fury, or with a resounding misery, so he addressed her with a roguish smile –
That faltered at the sound of a blistering roar.
All at once he was a maelstrom, a tempest, a blur of movement and motion, striding directly in front of them to be the keeper, the guardian, the sentinel, shielding them away from the calamities of the darkness, the rolling revolution of beasts and infidels. It hadn’t been a test he’d summoned, Orsino shook his head, not wielding any incantations, not murmuring calamity, deception, or chicanery – and so he roamed a little bit more forward, following the thunderous outcry, the rush of wind and devastation, entirely too bold, too audacious. “I think we found your predator,” he murmured to Wessex, striving for a moment of amusement between the levels of unease and revelation, advancing, climbing higher and higher, Orsino musing and hissing, as they began to decipher what haunted in the midst of the frosted loam.
The bear was a quick, swift shadow, unleashing its terrible, horrific bellow upon another (a large girl he didn’t know, a painted stranger caught in the lines and tethers, and it didn’t seem to matter that she was foreign), and he raced forward, head down, horn extended, eager, ready, fervent for the fray.
[Erebos rushes forward towards the bear. Another NPC post will be made by next week! ;D]
Looking up from her fascination at the black stallion's companion, Vertigo noticed a winged mare. She was two toned, much like the Draft, though her single horn was more attractive than Ve's antlered pair. She spoke of Kaos, a being that Vertigo knew absolutely nothing about. She was too new to Helovia and too young to know anything of their Gods and such. She snorted softly to herself and moved her gaze along, taking in the rest of their little herd.
Behind the winged female was a smaller mare, much smaller than her Draft form. She was pure white, save for her eyes and the markings around them. The young maiden felt the need to avoid eye contact, feeling intimidated by the other mare's appearance. Vertigo did have to admit that she was lovely, though it wasn't aloud and her sapphire gaze didn't rest on the pure mare for long. She too spoke of this Kaos, but again Vertigo paid them all little attention, for it was the last of them that really captured her attention.
She was a multi-horned maiden, though they were far from hideous. She was attractive in her own way, but again, the painted female remained silent. She hadn't spoken since she met up with them, not really feeling the need to. Ve had found them mid patrol, and being inexperienced, she wasn't quite sure how to insert herself. So quiet she was. Observing was more her suit anyways. Besides, she didn't mind taking in the sight of her herd mates.
She had come to the conclusion that the herd following the black stallion is a mix of beasts, some a little more...odd...than others. This trip for her has turned into more of an observant one, trying to get a chance to know her herd mates. Only when a multi-horned mare speaks of trouble brewing does Ve snap to attention. Her dark eyes look upwards at the circling fowl, tilting her head slightly. She hadn't even noticed them before....
The world around them was silent and, had it not been pointed out, the youngster most certainly wouldn't have noticed. At least, not until a loud, bellowing roar reached her ears. The hot breath of the beast made her squeal in fright, tripping over herself to get away. A claw or two found contact with her haunch, a burning pain bubbling to the surface along with her own blood. The Draft's sapphire eyes rolled with fear, hiding as best she could behind the rest of the herd.
She was useless here, had no idea what she was even doing. This was proof of that. Her heart beating wildly, Ve finally looked upon her attacker. A large bear, a beast she had never seen face to face before. Her body shakes, she might be larger than most, if not all, of the rest of them, but that certainly didn't mean anything to her in this moment. Nostrils flaring, Vertigo winced as blood dribbled down her leg, the burning intensifying. She could still walk, the wound not really deep enough to hinder her. More or less it was an annoyance.
“That's what you get for being so damn nosey.” She snorts to herself, still not quite sure what to do in this situation. Her fear was overriding her brain. No. She wasn't cut out for this soldier business. It was too risky, too dangerous. She was far from brave. Obviously. After all, she was hiding instead of fighting back. This revelation did nothing to strengthen her or allow her to fend for herself. Ve was silently hoping that someone, anyone, would tell her what to do. Wide eyed, she looked from bear to soldier, back and forth to each equine. What was she supposed to do!?
"Talk."
I need you.
I don't know why, but every now and then in my life,
Somehow, her words cut through him. Maybe. It looks like it, anyway, the way he turns away from her then. Touchy, apparently, this young general of hers. Were all of them going to be so touchy? Most were, she knew. Somewhere in her gut she knew she couldn’t really blame them. Most weren’t raised as she was, by a mother without a heart, by a monster for a father. Those things weren’t entirely true. Her mother did have a heart, and she also had the power to stop the hearts of others. But her heart, if it beat with kindness at all, only cared her home and her children. Her father was less monster than weed, something that wormed his way in to places you did not want him and strangled everything from the inside out. She knew to look for dangers in the less obvious places. She often missed the obvious though.
“No,” she says simply, honestly, without the usual playfulness behind her words. “That is why I said, in this moment. She rolls her shoulders slightly, now distracted, which is a terrible thing to be when you are supposed to be looking for dangers. “But didn’t Kisamoa parade as one thing only to prove to be another? In your shoes, I would likely turn on my army just to prove a point. Clearly, you are far more upstanding than I am.” And at that she laughs a bit, that Cheshire grin coming back to lift a corner of her lips. Hoping it is enough to ease whatever tensions she unleashed within the boy Upsetting the General already. she thinks, and there’s an annoying amount of agreement coming from Raven at that thought.
She considers moving off, to see if she can’t find anything of interest in this wasteland. Okay fine, not a wasteland. It’s beautiful really, just cool and boring at the moment. But Beloved’s answer catches her attention, and she listens to the mare with that grin on her face like Weaver knows something Beloved doesn’t. And she does. She knows that dying and rising again does not make you worth of reverence. It slowly shifts you into a cruel, impossible thing. Perhaps that explains her. She has died twice, and she had so little empathy to leave behind in the first place. Erebos fills in the gaps of Beloved story, and she nods at that, saying nothing more because she’s at least smart enough to know her words will likely cut, even though they are so rarely intended to do so.
You know when she intends to cut.
But there wouldn’t have been time, anyway. A roar breaks the silence and Weaver turns instantly. Erebor is already moving, horn down toward the bear. A black and white, rather large, girl that Weaver doesn’t know is reeling away, hiding behind the rest of the group. She wants to dive into the fight, to spread her wings that she never gets to use in this group of horses and attack from above. But there are many better trained than she, and she’s slightly afraid she’ll smash her own herdmates with a hoof instead of the bear. Instead, she turns to the mare who’d nearly gotten mauled by the mare. “Move,” she says, not unkindly, but firmly, getting the girl away from the bear and the group.
Weaver situates herself between Vertigo and the bear, backing up slowly, hoping Vertigo would move. Would get herself out of harms way and leave Weaver there as a shield. She was a rather good shield, quite willing to die if necessary to protect. Ah, what would Beloved think of that, if she watched Weaver rise again? Would her own name cause so much reverence? Doubtful. But she’d be curious to know. Not that she’s trying to get herself killed by a damn bear today. There were enough of them here to stop the thing.
She keeps her head lowered, horns at the ready. Raven at least realized he needed to get the hell out of the way. He’d managed to fly up to a low branch, not quite skilled at flying yet, but at least capable of not getting himself killed. Her wings are slightly spread, hiding Vertigo, and she doesn’t fight without them anyway. They are an advantage she isn’t going to simply ignore because the horses around her don’t like them.
The mad one rolls her eyes at the wounded child and Yr’s Weaver, looking away with shaking crown and bumbling giggles back towards the caverns, for which she yearns. If the boy does not understand trust, Beloved does not know why her most recent catch decides to teach him. His offerings are nothing but an obviously soft heart, but meager scraps to the white witch, who would have laughed in the face of his naivety, and wounded pride.
Many were those who did not trust for the sake of its name, the child would learn. Beloved certainly was among those who killed first, and questioned motive later; she never wondered as to the spiritual value of those she crushed…
They had none.
Her thoughts are drawn back to the present from her wandering dreams by the roar and raucous of the bear’s arrival. Dancing about to face the beast, her eyes narrow in contempt, her giggles stifled in the wet grasp of a snarl. So close, the monstrous beast was already upon one of their own, and the dainty, pale witch squeals with disgust and fear at the sight of its saliva lacquered fangs. Baring her own teeth, she lowers her crown in anticipation of battle, observing the motions of her comrades, first, to find the place to strike which was least detrimental to she (first and foremost, of course), and the others.
The General charges towards the bear, his sword extended before him, eager as her own, and Weaver places herself between the danger and the as of yet unnamed victim. That sight makes the wicked one literally balk, her laughter growing swift, high in pitch, her ears fluttering back to forward in confusion. Why would you do that?!
Even she, undying, perfect Beloved, does not taunt that which would maim and maul her; with her giggles like streaming banners, she hopes to place herself behind the bear, away from claw and fang, not at all the sort to sacrifice her own body for that of others, as those she ventures with. Lunging as she closes the distance, her ivory rapier seeks to drive into the beast’s meaty flesh, her hooves slamming down on the ground, her mind willing the tremble of the earth beneath her. Not thinking about the others (she rarely does) as she utilizes the power, the motion is more to ensure her own strikes are true, and to keep the monster from wheeling about, and smiting her in the process of her assault.
[ Summary: Beloved attempts to move behind the bear. She then stabs at it with her horn, and attempts to use her rank magic to throw it off balance. ]
you've lost your demon.
Tag Beloved, please!
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
It would be silly to call the group of them - most with sharp, pointy horns and some experience in battle - sitting ducks. Especially with their fearless leader at the helm. However -
How none of them noticed the rank smell of a recently wakened bear, nor heard the heavy pawsteps is beyond her - but Wessex is as much at fault as the rest of them. Perhaps they trusted too much in the safety of their own home, forgetting that because they have Gods and magic, that there are still creatures who can rip their bellies from chest to cock and spill their guts on the ground. This will not be that day. Not by the hair on their chinny-chin-chins.
A roar causes her to wheel around, vaguely registering Erebos’s words - her ears are alert and pricked to everything else. And on any other day, she might have glowed under that acknowledgement, but today, it is not something she would like to be right about. Here is their predator. Here is their test. Here is what shall set them above the rest. The General leaps towards the bear without a plan, thinking only to attack. But this beast is the size and sort that must be taken on as a coordinated unit, and Wessex yells to Weaver, Beloved, Erebos, “Watch out for the paws! One hard swat could potentially send them stumbling, cracking ribs and drawing blood. She watches as Weaver takes charge of a scared draft (though really, they could use the mare’s strength and size right about now), while traditional horns wave and seek to pierce flesh.
Wessex’s accoutrement are not quite as useful in that regard, so she waits until she sees an opening between the others’ attacks, time enough for the soldier to hurl herself forward and attempt to knock the bear off balance - onto its side, perhaps. Or at least make it clear that this prey is not worth the effort.
His claws had dug into her haunch, had sunk into her flesh, and for just an instant, he’d thought he’d earn, savor, and relish his meal, overcome the wails and bellows of hunger. He’d be victorious, fight off the savage, yearning tenacity of hunger, live to see another day, strike out against the world and claim bits and pieces of nothing –
But then she’d evaded, escaped, and the thoughts of his victory came crashing down around him.
It’d been too much of a risk, and he’d poorly calculated his efforts, their assaults, for no sooner had he let out that massive roar, did they come to chase him away, to seize and possess, to match his carnivore rapture with their own. There was one momentous surge after another, all beasts made of bracken, sculpted out of monstrous contortions, of magic and melee, and he could’ve turned away, could’ve escaped, nursed his wounded pride, tried to rationalize another attack on another day.
But his mistakes burned too hot against his brain; his errors scorched, sizzled, embodied his seditious spirit, and no sooner had they come to plunge their swords into his gut did he fight back. The blue one’s horn struck him along the upper left shoulder, and he rose, rose higher on those massive haunches, grimaced in pain, swung his claws with all his might down towards his opponent’s shoulder too.
Then his prey was gone – back and shielded behind a winged thing, and he knew he couldn’t get to her, which made him seethe all the more that this was becoming pointless, deadly, and concerning –
He’d been too engrossed in the finality of his choices when another terrifying moment of pain delved into his haunches, and he fell forward, grunting, roaring, trying to swivel towards the ivory mare who’d dared to stab at him. He lunged for her – for anything in his way, barreling with paws and fangs, hastening for her neck.
And then one more, pushing against him, all might and brutality, and it was all he could do to just remain upright, thrashing, clashing, trying desperately to remain alive – claws rippling through the air, roars of pain, of anguish, of fury laced and surging from his throat, attempting to bite down on her withers too.
[The bear gets stabbed in the left shoulder by Erebos, and in return tries to slash his claws at Erebos’ shoulder.
Due to Weaver shielding Vertigo, he does not attempt to go for either of them.
Beloved stabs him in the haunch, and he lunges for her with paws and fangs towards her neck.
Wessex almost makes him fall down, and he claws all around him, trying to bite down at her withers as well.]
There was a bitter, rancorous portion of him that still blistered at Weaver’s words, at the outcry, at the sharpened points remaining in his chest – between the in this moment, turning on my army, and being far more understanding, all he could muster was a barbaric, twisted comparison: I’ll show you. He’d display his countenance, his words, his echoes, his throngs, his battle-ridden mind, his sentiments, all the lacquer of his worth to them, and they could do with it what they liked (but lord, perhaps he did rest too much on wishing they would have confidence in him, some pride in his abilities, some notion of value in his potency; that he was more than a prince and a fool, a youth in sword’s clothing). He could hear Orsino’s malicious tongue clawing at him through their bond, and he maneuvered forward, into danger and treachery, into peril, into disaster, to protect, to defend, to calculate, to ruin.
It shouldn’t have been so relishing, so satisfying, to embrace the feel of his rapier sliding through the bear’s flesh, cutting, slashing, and lacerating; but triumph embraced its way along the carnivorous walls of his nefarious heart, blending into the valor, into the gallantry, so no one would know which had bested which (the savagery and the intrepid, the audacious and the bloody). He wanted to smirk, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to taste the contentment of war crawling through his skull; but the moment was not made to last, because no sooner had he lanced the great beast did the ursine swing one of its menacing paws and claws his way. Move! resounded within his head, toppled the stature of his maliciousness, and he could hear Wessex shouting about the manacles, but the din had been too late, and even as he dashed ahead, trying to reach someone, anyone, to push them out of the way, the claws raked along his back like knives.
The pain was excruciating, and he growled, hissed, at the twisting bout of agony bursting along his body – but he didn’t crumble, he didn’t flail, he didn’t trip to the ground like he had with Ashamin, all those seasons ago. He buried the misery, he stifled the suffering, he kept it under lock and key and muffled breaths, eyes widening, gazing, at the chaos unfolding before him – striving to reach for his allies, for his comrades, to throw himself before them so the cretin couldn’t get their hides too. The General ran on fumes and aggression, on boldness and calamity, on sedition and irreverence, twisting back into the flames so no one else would be burdened, would be mauled, or would be lacerated. He aimed to ignore the blood dripping along his sides, launching onwards, forgoing the unrelenting pain each stride ruptured in his cranium (he could fall apart later, not now), narrowed eyes watching the others (with such pride that it echoed along his chest, past the splintered points, past the anguish – he yearned to shout at them, to tell them Well done, but the day wasn’t over, the fight wasn’t extinguished). Then, with his horn aimed for the bear’s chest, he dug into his fury for the flames of his lineage, hastening them to his touch, so that if his cutlass managed to pierce flesh again, it would burn - conquering and brutal, belligerent and vicious, victorious and unholy, pieces of infernal vengeance.
[The bears’ claws hits Erebos in the back, causing some bleeding and pain. Erebos aims for the bear’s chest, hoping to infuse it with his fire magic if he manages to hit.
Another, and likely the last, NPC post will be up next week!]
“Move.” It takes Vertigo a few moments to process the command, but she finally nods, still shaking. The large draft moves, a slight limp in her step. The pain is growing, but her fear is far greater than anything else in this moment. The winged female moves herself between the roaring creature and Ve, backing up as she does so. The painted maiden follows suit, more than happy to make herself a harder target for the savage creature.
Sure, she may look utterly ridiculous, hiding her large body behind a group of fine lined and muscled equines. However, the youngster was more about self-preservation at the moment, something that wasn't done so out of maliciousness, but merely because she couldn't think of anything else. Her young mind couldn't fathom what her legs were supposed to be doing at a time like this, another reason why she welcomed the feathered maiden's commands. She needed guidance, what with her brain set to the off position.
Vertigo catches a glimpse of the fight as her antlered head peers around her savior's wings. The pure white female has moved herself behind the vicious creature, attempting to attack while the beast is distracted by the dark stallion. The multi-horned mare was also making herself useful. What was she doing hiding? She couldn't even answer that question, shaking her antlered head. Vertigo wanted to be nowhere near that roaring, claw slashing beast.
The stallion's attack hit home, though it seemed to only make the bear angrier, as he swiped one of those large clawed paws in retaliation. And then, while the brute is distracted, the small pale maiden attacks, her horn doing damage as well. Vertigo wanted to help, wanted to be useful, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she couldn't even do that.
She was so lost in her own mind that she failed to notice the stallion's injury. So lost in her mind that she failed to notice the blood running down her own leg, failed to notice the throbbing of her exposed muscle. So useless.... Vertigo shook her large skull again, trying to release herself from her fear. She had to help, that's what she'd come here for anyways, right? What would she do though? She was young and inexperienced, had the slightest idea what to do in a fight.
Instead of galloping into battle, antlers sharpened and at the ready, Vertigo remained hidden. She closed her dark eyes, hoping to block out the problem at hand. If she couldn't see it, it wasn't real. Right? The draft whimpered, the sound almost inaudible. Weak. So, so weak.
"Talk."
I need you.
I don't know why, but every now and then in my life,
What would Erebos think, if he knew she wouldn’t give two shits about his birthright. Prince was a worthless title, one that doesn’t define you unless you let it. How does she know? She’s a princess, of course. Does she look like a princess? Well, maybe. In her own way, she is beautiful and wild and entitled. But she works for what she’s given. She’s as young as their General, but that doesn’t stop her. Birthrights and age are meaningless. His willingness to charge a bear to protect another means something. The blood that pours from his wound but doesn’t deter him means something. He has nothing to prove. Just a thicker skin to grow. But they don’t have time to wax poetic.
The girl manages to move, but little else, and it’s clear she’s got no instinct at all. Now is not a time for lessons or lectures on flight versus fight. Naturally, a horse would flee. Would at least run the hell away from the bear. But no, this girl just stands there, and Weaver is stuck guarding her while her comrades throw themselves into battle with a bear. As far as she’s aware, they can all die. Maybe not Beloved, but she only thinks that because of the way the pale mare worships the immortal, but Weaver doesn’t actually know.
If anyone should be next to those bear’s claws, it’s her. It’d hurt like bloody hell, but she’d just pop back up if he struck too deep. But they fight anyway, not caring that they might get hurt, might die. Erebos does get hurt, and the blood that flows freely doesn’t stop him from returning to the fray. She motions with her head for the girl to move, trying to get her behind some of the shrubby trees in this place. Not the best cover, but enough.
Willing Raven to keep an eye on the frightened mammoth of a child, Weaver steps forward, careful to keep herself between the bear and Vertigo. She can’t leave the girl completely unprotected. Some tiny part of her already tiny heart isn’t that cruel. But she can’t just watch her comrades fight either and do nothing to help.
She waits for a moment when the bear is distracted; when hopefully it won’t have time to notice that Vertigo is somewhat unguarded (though Weaver tries to stay on the path between Vertigo and the bear). When she thinks she’s got the best moment she’s going to get, the bear after someone else, she charges, tucking her wings to her side and lowering her head, aiming all seven horns toward the bear’s side. If she’s lucky, it’ll distract the bear long enough for Erebos to land his blow on the bear’s chest, to end this for good. If she’s unlucky…actually no, she doesn’t want to ponder that scenario. Lucky sounds better.
No matter what, she keeps herself between the bear and Vertigo as best she possibly can. When she’s hit or missed or whatever else happens, she’ll go straight back to the girl, back to playing guard. Assuming she can still walk. But she’s hoping there will be no need for that. She’s hoping this comes to an end.
03-17-2017, 09:28 AM (This post was last modified: 03-17-2017, 09:33 AM by Beloved.)
The smell of blood soon riddles the air, so fragrant and rich that the woman is immediately swept into the throes of battle lust. Her diminutive pupil broadens into clear visibility, the silver of her iris aflame, and as her horn plunges deep into the bear’s flesh, she shrilly cries out her elation to the Gods of blood, and battle. The roars of the beast as she and her comrades pierce and bludgeon it are accompanied by grunts and shouts of those the bear returns blows to, and as her blade pulls away from the thick hide of the creature, she joins those who cry out from their wounds.
Her dainty crown bobs down and back, her pillars dancing with grace beneath her, but too slow are her steps, to free was her abandon in the quest for the death of their opponent. Her right gaze is locked to the sight of the black claws, and the sheer size of the paw which drives towards her, and she squeals before it even strikes her, her pupil widening with fear, rather than the desire to maim.
That silver eye is nearly shattered by the swipe of the bear, which instead rends her ear away, leaving the flesh a flap which dangles and oozes blood into the frame of her vision. The pain is sharp, and swift, her time weakened body incapable of holding back the scream of rage and pure, mind numbing hurt which drives through her soul and mind. Recoiling another few steps, she drives down and forward again with her rapier, seeking to piece the paw which has maimed her, her snarls ended with whimpers of suffering.
"Defiler!" she howls, contempt coiling fast about her heart, the pulse of her blood escaping her wounds drawing a knife like ache to her nearest temple, the world flickering with white. Red floods her neck and chest, drips down her knees, but still she lunges forward again, her snarls punctuated by the bludgeoning drives of her hooves between each reach of her blade. Horn, hoof, horn, horn, hoof, she becomes a flurry of motion, forgetting her place, or her wound, in the need for recompense. "Blasphemer! Aberrant! Fiend!"
[ OOC: The bear misses her neck, but nearly rips her ear off. She has an ear/skin flap combo just hanging there now, bleeding out the wazoo. The entire situation makes her go full batshit. She proceeds to engage the "fuck you flurry" which is comprised of mindless stabbing and kicking, and various archaic insults. ]
There’s a special sort of madness in group fighting; whether it be two-on-two or army-vs-army, the number of incredibly random events, the danger of friendly fire or even better yet, sudden death, increase exponentially with the number of combatants. Teamwork is easier when one works from afar, hurling magic at a target - literally bombarding one’s opponent with assault after assault - than having to dodge hooves and claws and horns and teeth. Wessex’s vision tends to narrow in the moment, seeing only target and bullseye, the sphere of her attention relegated to peripheral vision and what she can naturally sense with her body. Sometimes it seems as if they are all moving in slow motion, so great is the sensory input.
The bear, in all his pain and fury, sets to swiping hither and thither with his great, clawed paws. His bellow is enough to make her realize they’re in for it, followed quickly by Beloved’s howls (Erebos’s pain is drowned out by all the chaos and cries of retribution from both sides). Her forceful thud against the brown mass does not go unnoticed, and white hot lines write themselves across her withers in the moments after impact. Wessex bellows - a scream holding notes of fury and revenge and agony, as a hot trail of blood slides down to her elbows and underbelly. Fast and furious it comes - but hey, it’s just a flesh wound. Wessex moves out of reach as quickly as she can, reassessing the situation.
She is lucky enough to escape the bear’s jaws, as all three of her fellow soldiers renew their attacks. Weaver flies - Beloved and Erebos stab - and again, Wessex tries to use her height and weight to her advantage, rushing in, hooves aimed to the bear’s head for a deadly strike - hard and heavy against the base of his skull. Even if she misses, her attack may shove the beast towards Erebos’s outstretched horn - or perhaps the opposite will happen, the General forcing their target into the Spanish Norman’s large, waiting, hooves.
Either way, things don’t bode well for the unlucky bear - whose only misfortune was to pick the wrong type of prey for dinner.
Failure was imminent; he was quickly overwhelmed, rushed at, disassembled, maimed by this group of hellions – predator becoming prey – and no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how hard he pushed against the shadows crossing over his eyes, the pain burdening his skin, his flesh, his bones, he was faltering, stumbling, dying. His swan song throngs, bellows, and roars were only so the world knew he didn’t go down and out without fighting back – his claws were bloody, his maw was tarnished, and his mind was muddled, and though the end was coming swiftly on horns, swords, and brutality, he’d tried, and that had to count for something.
The first of many final blows landed squarely in his chest, a deep, penetrating thrust of the blue one’s sword, burning him from the inside out, and even as he attempted to sweep aside the beast he knew it wouldn’t be done, his shoulder crumbling down, his strength failing him as pain surmounted over everything. Then seven more barreled into his side, sticking against his ribs, his lungs, his great, beastly, burly bulk, shouts echoing, ricocheting, resounding through his ears – kicking, stabbing, assault after assault, until they were just a blur of motions and knives. He fell before the massive mare could topple him, limbs flailing in his death rows, reaching out to shatter the world apart, but then there was nothing, nothing at all, as his lungs seized and his body couldn’t take anymore – organs shutting down, one by one, his heart taking its final, restless, feverish beat. Then, as suddenly as he’d come rampaging towards them, he was gone, still, foolish, ignorant, and perished.
His blade stuck deep into the great bear’s chest, burned, bristled, ignited the infernal flame etched between his sinew, his flesh, his soul, until the boy was no longer anything but a living, breathing weapon, scalding and incensed, kindled and pernicious. The bear flailed, a massive round of paws meeting the air, grasping for anything; and he slid away, backed his rapier out of the muscles and skin, watched the blood fly through the air and stain his cutlass’s blue veneer, witnessing the end of a carnivore, brought down by their joined forces, by their spitting rage, by their rebellious, anarchical decrees. Weaver guarded and lunged, Wessex stabbed, Beloved shouted, hollered, and unleashed hell – and he only breathed when the bear grew quietly, infinitely still, and then they were only a tattered mass again, newfound soldiers quickly learning what it was like to see death, what it was like to fell another being.
For a few seconds, he said absolutely nothing, absorbing the swift moments, the quick, annihilating contortions, the way they’d attacked, sieged, and assaulted with the barest of forethought – how abrupt, how keen, how rash they’d all been, how glorious the triumph. The pain pounded against his head again, resounded and ricocheted, poured from open wounds down the length of his back, blood and fire, and he didn’t care, not just yet, only turning towards his compatriots with the most mutinous grin, proud, feral, courting the flames of hell, the restless embodiment of weapons and rebellion; an insurrectionist who’d seen his revolution spark. “Nicely done!” He prospered to them all, bobbing his head in each of their directions until the pain seized him entirely, and he stiffened to a minor degree, eyes pinpointing over their wounds too, how deep, how brutal, how affected they’d all been. Would they call him foolish again, for leading them into the Steppe, for racing into the chase, for blindly defending the mare they didn’t know? The prince’s eyes narrowed, bluntly coiling his connection with Orsino into a keen command, so curt and forceful the kitsune hadn’t even had time to blanch, roll his eyes, or hiss in contempt. Find Enna, was all he granted, and the Stygian beast didn’t linger, rampaging off into the nearby mountains and cliffs, intending to find the Mender to patch, sew, and stitch them back together again (pretending he wouldn’t receive another tongue lashing from her as a result).
He swiveled his head briefly to the crowd, “Everyone all right?” ensuing from his lips, knowing full well no matter what they answered, they’d still be taken care of none the less, then maneuvering slowly to the painted mare, the one who’d been selected as prey. The General didn’t approach unkindly, he was too stiff now, too sore, too molten to do anything but coil that blinding, dashing smile back upon them again, stare centered squarely upon her unknown figure, pondering which beast they’d just saved. “Who are you?”
Thereafter, he beckoned back to his soldiers, to his compatriots, war on his mouth, on his lips, on his tongue. “We shouldn’t let this beast go to waste.” Perhaps, in their anger, in their fury, they wouldn’t care about which parts they chopped apart or harvested for their liking, indulging to trophies, to weapons, to armor, and defense in memory of their fateful outing (they’d come together now, and he knew they’d be able to do it again, all might, all tenacity, all united in loathing and irreverence). “Take what you wish,” and he stood back, bleeding, torn, but emboldened, commanding, and dangerous; hoping they’d be just the same (and they’d ripple across kingdoms, a mass, a team, a union of wolves from the mountains, savage, wild, and licentious).
[Hey hey, take a bear claw necklace, make a nice bearskin pelt armor...thing. ;D]
The fight continues. Everyone does their best to avoid attacks and then there's the dance of avoidance to get their own attack to strike home. Yet she stands there totally useless. Before Vertigo can convince herself to move, it's over. The bear collapses, the last bit of life flickering out. She snorts, shaking her head, moving back away from the group and death.
The dark stallion gives the rest of them their congratulations and he's right in doing so. They were all magnificent. It's then that everyone's injuries seem to get the best of them, from what she can gather anyways. Her own wound on her rump has continuously stung since she received it. The blood has since moved from a roar to a trickle, however. The white stocking on her leg has become a rust color, the blood drying and the new mixing in.
Shaking her large head, Vertigo is brought back to the present when the male turns his attention to her. Her ears go sideways in embarrassment. She was the victim, the damsel in distress, but honestly, she was too big, too awkward for that to seem in the slightest bit attractive. A big, clumsy, fool. “V..v..Vertigo.” She swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “I..I...I was only coming to o...observe. I...I'm sorry.” Another swallow as she turns her sapphire eyes down to the ground.
He moves on to recycling the bear, but Vertigo doesn't move. She remains still, her brain running through the events that had just occurred. She could' have been brave a great many times. Yet her fear held her back. She definitely wasn't soldier material. Ve snorted at the thought. She was more than sure the rest could easily agree with the obvious conclusion she'd just come to.
"Talk."
I need you.
I don't know why, but every now and then in my life,
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[O] clear your throat and face the world [patrol]
![[Image: ve_chibi_by_hoofbeatdesigns-daya7ew.gif]](http://orig02.deviantart.net/99b5/f/2017/038/2/9/ve_chibi_by_hoofbeatdesigns-daya7ew.gif)
