the Rift


Of Men and Angels [open]

Noitcerru Posts: 5
Outcast
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.2 :: 4
Jessica
#1
Noitcerru
Beat. Beat. Beat.


Leaves swirl in spiralling eddies, whispering in breathless rustles across the earth. They dance one after the other, only to fall limply to the ground - and then the next, and then the next, disturbed by updrafts of air overhead. Moving updrafts, one heavy drumbeat and then another. And in the canopy boughs dipped and swayed, twigs and lesser branches creaking as something pushed past - something large and powerful and forceful, barrelling through with wings outstretched -


He must have been here for hours. Most of the forest was no more than overgrown path - inaccessible to him, of course. His wingspan is too large for those tiny little passageways, wherever they led. The sky is still closed to him here, and even he cannot struggle free; the sharp bark would only cut his wings to ribbons and, for that, he doesn't dare try. This is the largest glade he has seen so far and he is reluctant to leave it, his wings able to stretch out here where they are unable to elsewhere. It are too cramped here, too restrictive, and Noitcerru's mood is suffering for it.  


Noitcerru is not built for land such as this. He is ploughing through the forest regardless - it wasn't like he has a choice - but even as the stallion forges his way through there is ample resistance. The very branches themselves hold him back, gnarled old hands with their fingers outstretched ready to pull on a feather and drag back a wing; the fog obscuring risks until they are centimetres from his face.  


And all around - noises. Once the stallion hears something that he could have sworn was a nicker, but it is gone before he had been able to turn around, the sound already fading into the quiet of the forest around him. The very foliage itself seems to muffle sound, to drag in every last noise and leave a vacuum of inhales and exhales and breath. He hears little but the beat of his own wings, that dual pulse that serves as the constant, never ceasing baseline for his own existence.  


He is not to be caged.  


And yet he finds himself being so. All he has is the broader parts of the passage to go by, such as the larger space in which he finds himself now. Enjoying the space this glade gives him the stallion casts a glance above. No - he can't rise here, can't possibly skim over this forest as he wishes. Not now, with the lace-like netting of further branches and leaves hemming him in. He grits his teeth. Coming here was a mistake, and one he is paying for now dearly.


_________________

Open!

run boy run
Image Credit

Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#2

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

If it’s open skies the winged man is searching for, he need look no further than the Northernmost reaches of Helovia, where mountains provide dizzying sweeps of updrafts and thermals, where the only thing higher than a soaring horse are the barren, ice-capped peaks.

Wessex is most decidedly of the earth; built like a tank, as her herd mates affectionately say, all muscle and heavy bone and mottled, shadow-blending fur. She walks with all the grace of a moving sapling, heavy hooves never quite trying to hide her presence in the Threshold. Why? What for? Strangers usually do not like to be surprised with a fearsome looking creature such as she (mostly to children, she thinks, though build and crimson-tipped points might give someone else pause). She, too, would have difficulty in a dense forest - but these trees are wide enough to allow her to pass unhindered, with the only occasional problem in a low-hanging vine or particularly leafy branch that gets snarled on her splayed crown.

Thus does the skewbald stallion meet the mottled mare as she breaks into the well-lit glade, kohl-rimmed and orange eyes boldly eyeing him up and down. About her height. Large wings. Not their usual recruit (they are a uniquely horned bunch, far more so than feathered), but his first impression screams both irritated and strong - and their army could always use a man who knows how to direct his frustrations.

“Everything ok?” she asks with deep voice, the rumbles of inquiry originating deep in her chest. A black tufted leonine tail swishes gently back and forth, relaying the fact that Wessex is not, in fact a threat right now. “I’m Wessex. From the Basin.” As if that explains everything.

W E S S E X

image credit


@Noitceru  Welcome to Helovia!
-- please tag in all posts! --
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --

Noitcerru Posts: 5
Outcast
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.2 :: 4
Jessica
#3
Noitcerru
Where he had come from didn't matter and where he was going was tomorrow's concern. For now the birdman looks only for relief from the earthen prison he finds himself in with its barbed wire of branches and snaring tree limbs. The very rustle of the leaves is unnatural, the creak of bark prompting the relentless grinding of teeth. Skewbald fur crawls and he tosses his head, an unkept mane flapping against the column of his throat. It is too warm, too cold, too low....

And yet the wide expanse of the blue vault above is just about visible through the canopy. His home, the only home he has ever known - so close but yet so far, its vastness reduced to mere shards of blue amid wood he longs to snap and break apart. Hot breath is expelled in a snort, feathers rustling as he turns (no, drags, begs) his eyes away from the skies. The clouds cannot help him, nor can the stars.


He is alone.


He is not trapped, he decides (and what he decides surely had to be). It takes more to tie down the man and leave him wrestling against his bonds like any of the feathered with whom he shared the skies. He has watched them, flown with them. They are nothing but hive minds, foolish and stupid. What one bird would do another would in a heartbeat until the flock twisted and turned around him - to their deaths or otherwise. He is never so mindless. He will not become trapped like them, will never...


His heart races and he tosses his head again, weak limbs trembling beneath him. There is no relief from the labyrinth of bark and branch and twig and vine that he can see. Only forest, and wood, and glade, and path, and isolation and the rise of a wash of panic in his chest that clamps around his heart like a vice. But he is silent, not a word passing his lips.


And yet he is no longer alone. The birdman's attention snaps at once to the woman coming from the foliage. Sharp birdlike eyes glints in the half light, surveying her in quick razor glances. An assessment - but not of lust. But one never so gilded with any intellectual pursuits, either. It is neither, instead a wary, primal search for threats...and something else, too. Before him is a landed. A wingless. A not-like-him, a hoofed - and so close, closer than the ones he saw several months ago. Close, now, and fascinating. Muscular, solidly built, different. Different, and strange, and dangerous.


But yet he finds no threat in her gaze, in the movement of her body. Nonetheless he stays where he is - suspended high above by the steady drumbeat of pinions, useless legs hanging below. His head cocks in questioning. "Where is the Basin, Wessex-from-the-Basin?" His tones are flavoured with foreign lilts, winding and meandering as if following a river's course from high above down waves and rapids. But it is coarse, too; rough with frustration and a longing for water he gave up on finding hours ago. Yet his eyes are following her closely, his memory working to preserve every glimpse of that which is strange to him - the bare shoulders, barren of feathers, the four hooves affixed to the earth, limbs that worked. The birdman's wings beat rhythmically, the pounding of a war drum mixed with the cadence of a voice twisting through syllables. "Where is anything with open sky? Sky?"  He repeats his words, as if she is stupid, but he believes himself clearly not; the skewbald remains shrewd and watchful.  


_________________

Thank you for the welcome @Wessex!

run boy run
Image Credit

Pippigrin Posts: 77
Dragon's Throat Gladiator atk: 6.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 10hh :: Two HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Brandybuck :: Wolverine :: None Neverrmind
#4

PIPPIGRIN
FALLEN OUT OF BED FROM A LONG & WEARY DREAM

Who would the threshold present ot him today? No more vicious bears, the halfling hoped, at least one to join his ranks would be a bonus. Having left the wide open sands of the island with his newly-won key, Pippigrin felt a new-found strength within his chest. He'd won that key! Won it! Not stolen, not had it gifted, he had challenged and triumphed! All you whippersnappers look out; Pippin the mighty, the great, the tall, was coming to get you!
It was with this fantasy that the small boy paddled his wings over the wind current, occasionally making BOOOF and CRASSSHHH noises with his teeth as he kicked his feet mid-flight, battering invisible rivals out of his way.

When the currents took him breezing over the canopy into the threshold, Pippin's fantasy soon came to an end; for the daunting sea of trees below, the hundred-year-old trunks, bark and leaves, were so much greater than he. The hobbit was certain any one of them could reach up and pluck him from the air at any given moment if they so chose, and he'd never be seen again. There was much to be feared about a forest— it was more mighty than a dragon, yet as quiet and calculating as a snake.
Stone eyes raking over the gaps in the canopy, eyeing each glade for a newcomer, It wasn't long at all before Pippigrin caught sight of a perculiar fellow who's wingbeats carried him over the terrain rather than his own legs... how strange. Would he not prefer to fly up here? Oh, but the snagging trees and their reaching branches - now that would be an easy way to put you out of flying for a few days.

"Hay!" Pippin bellowed from above, angling his own pair of wings downwards to swoop into the gap between the forest's roof. Being the minuscule size that he was, he could afford to, and could very easily fit. "I can help ya get through!" he squeaked, wingbeats taking him to a rather large overhanging branch and landing upon it. Using his wings to actually keep him up upon it (because balancing on beams was certainly NOT his strong suit), Pippigrin pressed his weight up an down on the branch as if trying to jump on it like a trampoline.
"LOOK OUT BELOooW!" He hooted, the branch giving an almighty CRACK, another creak, and soon toppling down to the earth beneath.
Pippigrin, however, remained up in the canopy, suspended by his own pair of trusty wings. That should help, or was there any more branches that might need his expert branch removing services?


HI THERE! Welcome to Helovia, so excited to meet you! I'm Neve, this is my character Pippin!
If you're interested in having Noitcerru join the Dragon's Throat, here's some info about our herd land! Also, that's a super interesting name he has! I love it, could ya tell me how to pronounce it?! I'd love to know!
Land Guide - Dragon's Throat - This will explain all the flora and fauna found on the island! We have some mythical plants and creatures that you can learn a bit about in this short guide too!
Dragon's Throat Information - This one has a small mindmap of the tiers and ranks, plus a list of the herd's companions. Below that you'll find a list of rules, then all of the ranks explained in detail, and then below that you can find history of the DT as well as information about the culture of the Throat! Ps. you absolutely do not have to read all of this but it's a helpful document to refer to when you have questions!
And finally;
New Player Tables - This is a thread i set up where new players can request a table!

If you think of any questions hit me up!


Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#5

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

She’s going to get a damn crick in her neck if she has to keep looking up at the guy. From her vantage point, she cannot necessarily tell that his legs are weak and unable to hold his weight, that disuse has affected him so much that he will never storm in formation, but always fly high above, as the lookout. No, all she sees is a foreigner who will not touch down, and there is not yet a logical reason for it. There does not seem to be much disability here in Helovia, and those that have it wear it like a second a skin: a metal wing, the inability to speak, blindness - only internal ailments are hidden. Wessex’s flaws are in her ego, her perfectionism, and potentially in her infatuation - though that has yet to be seen.

Lizard eyes mark his sharp, raptor-like movements and find them… peculiar. Yes, that’s the word for it: not quite ethereal, but most definitely otherworldly. Too far away to see his eyes, she can imagine that he sums her up the same way - tallying comparisons and size and known strengths and flaws. Whatever score he gives her must be adequate (either that, or curiosity completely overrides all other intuition. That, and a clawing belly and devastating thirst), because he replies. Ever so slightly foreign (to be truthful, many Helovians have a touch of an accent from somewhere - a couple more so than others), his words seem almost as strange as the fact that he still has yet to land.

Surely it couldn’t be this easy. Before replying, her gaze searches the area around him, perhaps for others who may be listening, half-worried that he may simply be an advance scout, come to find Helovia’s weakness. Each land is strong in their own way, having warriors or dragons or blizzards and metal protectors at their beck and call, and an invading force would find it hard to divide and conquer. Her horned head indicated a direction behind her, “Due Northwest, as the crow fiies. Where are you from, He-Who-Does-Not-Land?”

He must be desperate, she thinks, to feel like he must repeat a word. “Sky? What is… Ohhhh… you mean the big open space. Yes, The Basin is a large valley, surrounded by mountains, but there’s plenty of flat, open space around it.” She thinks specifically of the landbridge, the steppe, and the heavenly fields. But no sooner has she finished than n ‘Hey!’ followed by the sound of a medium-sized object crashing through the boughs behind her cause Wessex to turn and face where she thinks the origin of the noise is, and when the leaves and twigs clear, the little horse is obvious.

Her eyes roll. Ain’t nobody got no time for whatever tomfoolery the pint-sized horse might try to rouse up.

W E S S E X

image credit


@Noitcerru  
@Pippigrin
-- please tag in all posts! --
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --

Noitcerru Posts: 5
Outcast
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.2 :: 4
Jessica
#6
Noitcerru
Up above there is no shelter from the sun's glare. Angled as he is the winged man has no escape from its gleaming brilliance, the blaze of pain in his skull at such direct exposure to the sun as familiar to him as the air currents themselves. Yet like his precious sky not all can translate so easily down to earth -  the ground below is shrouded in a chiaroscuro of shadows. To the man high above it is nothing but a shifting sea of murk and twilight, crowned by gathering darkness on either side.

Regardless he can see Wessex-from-the-Basin is of stone and scree and slab and the birdman cannot pull his eyes away from her. She is head on to him; he cannot see the spiralling dragon on her shoulder in its full glory but or does he have to to be enamoured by that which is so different to him and what he knows. What he sees fascinates him, but it is not the mottled grey of her coat nor the orange flare of her eyes which holds his attention any longer as his vision sharpens and his eyes adjust to the gloom; it is the points that rise from her skull in tapered arcs instead, jutting backwards in a crown of bristling spines.

And, too, the fine claret dipped on the fine ivory extremities. The stallion's eyes narrow, lips rising to show faintly yellowed teeth. Is it life-blood that drips from her points? Yet it cannot be so; he cannot detect its sharp, metallic scent. If the man had been in any position to think rationally he would have noted, too, the chances of dripping blood onto points positioned away from the face and not tapering in front. But he does not, and thinks only of weapons and points and hooves and the savage, strange menaces of the landed that he must remain guarded against. Arrows may not reach his lofty heights but here, in territory that is not his own, it is a different story that makes the birdman bristle where he treads air.

Yet she is...aware, too. Noitcerru cannot see her eyes and exactly where they fall but she seems wary, careful. A frown crosses his angular features. What has she to be fearful of? Sward and sod are hers to own, surely. But it occurs to him that the hoofed have territories. They put a price on the land, tax the tangible beneath their hooves. There is no such ownership in the heavens but there is such a thing in the earth. Is that what she was worried about? He refused the urge to look, if only to refuse to be reminded of the sheer labyrinth that lies around him. The birdman is out of his element, painfully so, and his heart still desperately lurches against his chest.  

So he does not look behind her as the mare demonstrates where the Basin lies. Water. It is no better than land; his wings could do little to raise him from the waves if he were to fall. A memory rises to his consciousness then but he bats it away, hearing Wessex-from-the-Basin's question. "Far away." The answer is short and sweet and curt, a conversational avenue well and truly closed. But her comment on birds prompts a disparaging snort. "Crows fly slow." They drifted on the currents; he has little time for them. The mare's nickname for him does not go unnoticed but he says nothing, stony silence greeting the epithet. She is accurate in her naming of him and Noitcerru does little to correct her. He does not land; she is...observant to notice.

Like no other bugger had mentioned it before.

But his ears flatten against his skull at her next words, her sarcasm. He believes it to be so; the ways of the hoofed are puzzling but he is no fool. A glimmer of fire sparks behind his eyes. "You know what I mean, She-from-the-Basin." Powerful muscle quilled with feathers bristle behind him. He has no time for this. He is caught and chained and on edge and he does not appreciate sarcasm - a simple taunt as it is he has no patience. Intellect tells him to keep this Basin woman on side - she could hold the way out. But panic and anger tell him otherwise. He grinds his teeth. "Tell me and tell me quickly. How could I get to - ?"

But there is confusion and he cuts himself off at the noisy interruption. Suddenly something comes from above, all flapping wings and creaking branches. A squeal passes the birdman's lips before he is truly aware and his own wings widen as far as they can in the space, lips drawn back in a defensive snarl. No embarrassment comes across him at his overreaction to the intrusion, nor to the comparative size difference of him and this new arrival - he has wings too, and Noitcerru sees a rival in the limited space under the canopy. It is beginning to feel claustrophobic.


"And what are you?" Like an owl the stallion inclines and bobs his head, raptor eyes watching him with a keen gaze. He is so small, almost like a mare. But there are two subjects in front of him now and he glances at the Basin woman, careful to keep her in his sights too. And then his gaze whips back to the pegasus. And that is what the smaller man is; one of his own. A threat...or perhaps someone to trust, if minimally.  The birdman's ears flick towards the other man. "You would help? To fit me through?" He could, that was for sure. The other winged had been able to break the branch, one that would have caused Noitcerru significant difficulty. Already the space is enlarged by the adulteration. The stallion is tempered by this, although still avian in his caution.


_________________

Thank you for the welcome, Neve! Thank you for the information as well. ^^ Truth be told I don't have the foggiest as to how to pronounce it either, but I go for noy (rhymes with 'boy')-sir-roo. Though my pronunciation of it changes on an almost daily basis, so there's that. ;P
@Wessex @Pippigrin

run boy run
Image Credit

Pippigrin Posts: 77
Dragon's Throat Gladiator atk: 6.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 10hh :: Two HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Brandybuck :: Wolverine :: None Neverrmind
#7

PIPPIGRIN
FALLEN OUT OF BED FROM A LONG & WEARY DREAM

There was chatter below; who voices lilted in the undergrowth. One male and one female, and while both were not recognised by the half-sized stag, he continued to flutter about the canopy and bash down the branches that might snag his new friend's wings.
'And what are you?' The man had spoken, the curiosity of a cat setched into his countenance, though there was something else there too; he seemed like the grumpy kind, in a way.
"Me!? I'm a hobbit!" Pippin replied, puffing his chest with pride "An Over-hill hobbit, mind you. The best kind!" While this would make absolutely no sense to anyone unfamiliar with his kind, it made perfect sense to the halfling. 'you would help? to fit me through?'
"Yap!" was the guardian's response, wings finally flaring as he brushed away one last leaf from his legs. It seemed his work was done. The hole was now big enough, the razor-like branches cut away. "I'm no tree feller Mr. Sir, but I am a Guardian of the Dragon's Throat, so It is my duty to help those in need!" Again, he spoke this with great pride and responsibility, keen eyes finding the peculiar mare.

Pippigrin's own flight took him upwards and out of the forest, the oxygen and light filling him with great happiness as he breached the canopy. "Come on!" He cheered down below, keenly awaiting the winged one's company. Pippin would love to show him the Throat; he'd never shown anyone his home before! Plus, this one was a pegasus! Pegasi were always welcome at the Throat. The little one's mind, however soon drifted to the other woman. Was she not worried to be alone in the threshold?
His flight once again taking him to the edge of the canopy, as if standing at the precipice of two worlds, Pippin cooed down to the one named Wessex.
"Hay!" He bellowed "You can come too!"


Nooo worries!
Let me know if you'd like Pip to take Noitcerru to the Throat to show him around! It's big and spacious with hardly any trees besides palm trees on the beach and around the oasis so he'd probably feel less claustrophobic there xD


Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#8

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

He is not the first to give her such appraising, wondrous looks; Wessex’s Before and After pictures are quite, quite different, to the point where a discerning audience might question whether or not she’s the same woman as before. A miracle transformation indeed! Just call her the spokeswoman of mutants, she’ll sell the product with testimonials far better than most (but that’s because the rest are dead, so there isn’t much competition to begin with). If he were to see her again in a few short weeks, he would find her tail possesses such sharp points as well. Wessex is ever-changing, ever adapting to the unknown which both cursed her and made her more suitable to a warrior’s life. Everything about it - from a trained, observant eye to built-in weapons, Wessex is a walking advertisement - just as Noitcerru is for the heavens.

She shrugs at his proclamation. “All the herds are far away, but the Basin is closest. There’s a large waterfall due north, and pools to the south -” interrupted then, she finds his impatience tangible, his slight hypocrisy amusing. He is permitted to doubt she knows about the sky, but she cannot show her own barbed intelligence. Fear and need create rude bedfellow. “The trees open up north of here -” And once again, she is interrupted, but this time, by the odd half-horses that came plummeting through the trees, as if he knew somehow, that there was someone down here who needed a path to the sky, though the only words spoken were to Wessex herself.

That, combined with the strength to clear whole boughs from trees, makes Wessex wonder if he is some stunted giant - but no, he calls himself a hobbit, which is a term the horned mare’s never heard before. Either way, she finds him rather obnoxious with his prancing about the canopy and overly eager tones. Uncalled for exuberance grates on the stoic mare’s nerves. It is not dignified. The half horse has completely stolen the situation away from Wessex, so she again shrugs and prepares herself to chock it up to a loss; despite her own savior complex, she will not beg the winged stallion to choose her way. She will not foolishly compete with a pint-sized horse like this.

As for the hobbit’s invitation, she scoffs. They could likely fly faster than she could run, and she marvels that the little stallion doesn’t see the ridiculousness of it all. “Nah,” Wessex shoots back, and starts to turn back from whence she came. Over her shoulder, she offers parting words to Noitcerru. “If you get tired of him, you know where to find me.”

Part of her hopes her willingness to walk away and leave him be is far more appealing than the overly talkative Pippigrin. There's something to be said for privacy and being left alone when one wants to be.

W E S S E X

image credit


@Noitcerru  
@Pippigrin
-- please tag in all posts! --
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --

Noitcerru Posts: 5
Outcast
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.2 :: 4
Jessica
#9
Noitcerru
"A..hobbit?" The word doesn't fit right on the stallion's tongue, doesn't twist well into his voice so textured with that of foreign climes. The birdman can do little but watch as the little...hobbit sets to work with the branches; his head turns this way and that, ears wheeling as he attempts to follow the other's flight. He is lithe, showing the same adeptness of flight that he himself shows; yet to see aviation on such tiny wings is confusing and bewitching in equal measure to the mare below them both. For his eyes keep trained on her also, a never yielding sense of caution making his gaze flit from one to the other in case either were to get too close. The contrast between the pair could not be more obvious; she is so plainly of earth, but yet the other winged horse is, if one of his own kind, one he has never seen before.

Are all the feathered horses so small here? Is he to be one of a few giants? The irony of this compared to the withered legs that hang limply off his body would have made a smirk steal across his mouth, if it isn't for the stress he is under.

Stress that is rapidly clearing. Size does not seem to matter for clearing vegetation and already the stallion can stretch himself out further than he could before. And the blue vault is above him now, wide and empty and free of the serrated border of branches. Already Noitcerru is looking to the sky, soothed by its presence once more; the longing to feel the wind run across the feathers of his wings and whip across his mane stronger than ever. But the birdman's frustration is curbed, and he is not so bewitched by the return of his beloved sky not to once again look back at the smaller horse. "Thank you...?" There is an almost tangible question mark after his words, colouring the syllables with wary quizzicality. Why such kindness is coming his way is...suspect.

But the sky is calling. The light is unobscured by the branches now and the warmth runs a shiver down his haunches.  The Noitcerru of before was not the man the stallion wishes to be known as; he is almost coming to life again from the prison beneath the trees. The invitation is one he almost blindly follows but for the intervention of the mare, down on the ground. Her skepticism is obvious and cuts through the idyllic, heady return to the skies. There is a choice. Pools to the south. Waterfalls due north. Both speak of freedom and space and expanse, and beyond that Noitcerru has little in the way of preferences. At least, geographically. But the Dragon's Throat. The name appeals to him. Something boyish returns to him then, not so much a relic of the ancient past but a reminder of the more fragile present, and recognition of Pippigrin as one of his own trumps his curiosity of the horned Wessex below, if only slightly.

The judgement made, he casts a glance down to the mare. He nods once. "I do now, Wessex-from-the-Basin." As she turns to go he calls after her. "I am Noitcerru!" There is little more to say - not when the skies are so close now. With powerful beats of his wings the birdman rises, through the canopy and up into the open skies. It is like returning home. Joyous whinnies slip from his mouth easily as he tosses his head in abandon, gliding around Pippigrin in wild circles and sliding into whirling serpentines. A jagged smile crosses his mouth. This is his element; he can dance as he pleases and dance he does in response to once again returning to the air. "Where will we be going, small horse?" His voice rings out here, clearer and firmer than before; his gaze is bright as he focuses his attention on the little horse. "What is the Throat? Where are its dragons?" Ripe amusement colours his tone beyond an excitement that runs feverishly through his veins. It doesn't matter now where he goes, as long as he goes nowhere near the trap of the tree branches again.

_________________

That would be great, Neve. ^^ At the moment I have no idea which herd he'll join (he's new to me too, as are the herds here onsite!) so some experience of the throat would be lovely if you have the time to take on another thread.
@Wessex @Pippigrin

run boy run
Image Credit
Please tag Noitcerru in every post!
Force/magic allowed (PM me first!)

Pippigrin Posts: 77
Dragon's Throat Gladiator atk: 6.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 10hh :: Two HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Brandybuck :: Wolverine :: None Neverrmind
#10

PIPPIGRIN
FALLEN OUT OF BED FROM A LONG & WEARY DREAM

'a...hobbit?'
"Yap!" the child of stone had hooted, his fleeting heart beating in time with each swish and swoop of his wind-cutting wings. His altitude gained and gained with each slap his feathers cast against the current, treading in place as he waited for the gangly-legged man to follow.
While his invitation to the dragon-lady had gone without a second glance, the stone-coloured guardian hardly minded - she wasn't nice, and she reminded him of a thorny-tailed lizard with those gross spines.

The coo from his new travelling companion had rang with an introduction, not aimed towards the hobbit but towards that same woman they left un the abyss of the forest. Noitcerru was his name; a name so foreign it caused the halfling to screw his nose in uncertainty. Had he heard that right?  "What?" The little stag blurted, his crystalline irises tracing over the withered appearance of his companion's legs - how did that happen? Well, he supposed if he flew as much as he did his legs would grow reasonably weak too. How strong Noitcerru's wings were though; and they seemed about four times the size of Pippin's. The spectacle of controlled flying was one that the small one watched with awe, his jaw dropped as his eyes traced Noitcerru the whole way around the sky as he circled and flipped his way into the clouds.
He sure seemed glad to be out of the forest.

To answer the man's question, Pippin gave a slight giggle. He had already told him, hadn't he? Or perhaps he had not. Though, soon came another question, this time about the throat.
"Where we are going is a herd land full of of others like you and me! And some not" His mind wandered from Ampere, their Sultana, who like Pippigrin and his travelling companion was blessed with flight, and then to their Sultan who had neither horn nor feather. "Oh it has dragons, but they're only little, and they're friends! I've only seen one big, nasty one, and he wasn't in the Throat!" Again the hobbit's mind drifted, this time to the dragon that followed astarot, and the pair that always followed the Sultan, then to the fearsome black dragon he'd witnessed in the thistle meadow.

Straightening his neck and angling his wings, the halfling pinned his sights southward, a briliant cheer escaping his maw.
"To the throat!"


Awesome!
What i'll do is start a welcome thread and have his rank changed to Outcast!
@noitcerru


Noitcerru Posts: 5
Outcast
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.2 :: 4
Jessica
#11
Noitcerru
The wind ripples across cocoa brown feathers as the stallion ducks and dives and wheels and whirls in time with the beat of his heart. Any eyes on him are totally ignored, so deep is he in his own form of oblivion. Once again he is free - free to go where he wishes, to fly where he wants and to feel the breeze whip across his face. There is little more to life than this, surely. Already the object of his stress is so far away, the dim branches of the forest that had him so snared tiny beneath his hanging hooves; already he feels lighter, as if a physical burden weighing down on each broad pinion has been removed, invisible shackles cast aside for the freedom of movement that he is willing to do almost anything for. No, not almost anything - anything at all. Anything under the sun and anything above it too, just for the pleasure of the open sky.

And the birdman is circling, too, the smaller stallion that was good enough to provide him this. The frustration is clearing to something akin to peace - something, for Noitcerru can never be at peace, never fully - and there is only one male to thank for that. Appreciation shines in his eyes to this little hobbit, this man who freed him from the branched confines of the trees. He expects to hear some sort of deal now, a condition for the other pegasus' actions. He did not have to free him, to clear the vegetation in his path, and the birdman has to icily consider the cost for this kindness. But yet there appears to be...none. The hobbit does nothing nor presses him for repayment. Noitcerru does not slow his pace; if anything he flies faster in the wake of this unexpected, suspicious development, weak limbs limply hanging below the powerful wings that allow his flight.

Limbs that are becoming increasingly obvious. The little grey man - so small; Noitcerru has barely seen his kind before, and with those peculiar ram-like horns - is watching him and he has lived long enough to know where his gaze lands without looking. He looks anyway, and as he slows to gentle circles and the controlled flight that is reined back from the dizzy ecstatic feeling of being back in the air his ears flatten. The ecstasy is draining now, replaced with the dull reality he takes so much effort to avoid. Gazes towards his legs that he so often forgets during flight are unwelcome and he bristles defensively. "Noitcerru," he repeats. He speaks clearly, and loudly to accommodate the distance between them. The name rolls off his tongue but his nostrils flare as he circles, wings casting dark shadows on the top of the trees below. His legs attempt to coil further into his body as much as they can as though they are attempting to disappear, although the muscles cramp uncomfortably.

This hobbit is far more conversational than he expects, and the picture he paints of the land he hails from is enough to spur the birdman on from what is a thorny, yet unspoken of, subject. Instead he talks of his homeland and Noitcerru listens intently, wheeling around in closer circles, raptor-like as his fixes his attention on the other stallion. The tale he spins is fascinating but just three words encourage him on more than any other: and some not. Noitcerru glances to the smaller man, expecting there to be an explanation; there is none. His mind descends on this idea. Winged and grounded living together? Coexisting? It is not so wholly alien that he has not heard of it before, but to be taken to such a place is different from merely hearing about it. Nor has he ever seen a dragon up close, let alone several.  

Wariness mingles with a risk taking urge to try in his mind; it does not take long for his curiosity to win out despite the better urgings of reason and the fear of the unknown. So when the small stallion at his side cries out in stirring homage to the land from which he hails a mimic of the hobbit's cry echoes through the air moments later, throwing caution to the wind with a loud squeal: "To the Throat!"

_________________

@Pippigrin - Thank you!

run boy run
Image Credit
Please tag Noitcerru in every post!
Force/magic allowed (PM me first!)


Forum Jump:


RPGfix Equi-venture