| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
May this be your darkest hour. The avaricious, serrated, gleam of triumph hastened to his pariah, Tartarean guile in the fuming, smoldering haze of mayhem. Corrupt, vile, deplorable, horrible, he’d scoured the world for the taste, the touch, of anarchy, for that restless, scintillating decadence of insurrection, and found it in the hostile boughs of sedition. Infernal, licentious and depraved, he’d carved the resolute, antagonistic plunge of a heathen’s formidable detachment, a distorted, debauched carnivore, a rapacious, meticulous monster, and acquired, possessed, what belonged to others. He’d clipped her wings, shorn her freedom, this Svetlana, weaved the beguiling acrimony of remorseless, barbarous contortions, until his stoic scheming had proven successful, victorious, another achievement enacted by the minute, scintillating movements of an unholy demon. In this imperious recherché, in this Stygian immorality, he’d found a sovereign whispering away the travesties of yesterday and living the nightmare of the present, absconded, deluded, and taken from her woebegone paradise. Did those mighty Foothills remember their alliance with the foul Qian? Did they forget about repercussions? And truly, what would her brethren do? Beg for her release? Cry for mercy? Wander where they didn’t belong, try to force their way to her fallen form? Burn, seethe, and simmer in the rancorous slate of their conquest, superiority, and mastery? Or would they come at all, leave her where she could bleed, whimper and cringe all on her own, away in the lofted hillsides of ice and treachery? He wanted them to be tormented, plagued, blighted by the sinuous, serpentine steal of his forbidding, scorching maelstrom, malice and menace, yearned for their devastation, their corruption, their demise. His piercing gaze, another puncturing brushstroke of his monstrous presence, remained poised over her frame, shadowed by the cavern walls, by the arcane, cold ruin of her prison. He, like so many times before, remained stoic, impenetrable and unreadable, the reticence of his ravenous plunder did not hum the highlights of his supremacy, merely remained the severe clarity of an overwhelming, eldritch titan. He said naught to her, clinging to the predacious grandeur of his unholy, potent puissance, dwelling in argent domination, consuming the open portal that could grant her release – blocking her from life by the covenant of death.
|
|
|
|
Today I was not particularly happy. No, quite the opposite. I was furious, at the unicorn leading me and at myself, at me breaking my wings, at me being lulled by the serpent's silver tongue and being attacked. I was more than angry, beyond anger, bordering on hate so strong it would overpower everything I did. If there was one thing the Stormchaser did not like, it was being restricted for the skies, being grounded, being trapped, being... outsmarted. And I was out of my game, out of any stupidity to think I could escape. Instead of complaining, giving the enemy any satisfaction on my frustration gleaming through my black eyes, I preened my wings, nibbling away at the dried scarlet encrusting the black. I lulled myself to relaxation, repeating the many lessons I had learned through life as I cleaned my wings, trying to ignore the big mess of pain and blood at the tips of my bird-like features- the six primaries missing from each wing. I'm sure they would grow back, much faster with a healer around, but for now I may as well be chained to the ground. Technically, I could fly, or at least flap, but I'm too sure I would drop to the ground like a stone without the important primaries to guide me, and risk hurting my broken wing even further. Yes, to add to my embarrassment, I had been caught unarmed traveling out of my herdland searching for Poppy, a splint on my left wing, my forelegs swollen and bruised.
Fuck my life, and fuck this arrogant stallion.
That is how I enter into this white wasteland, barren except for the one or two gnarled, twisted trees hunched over in their misery at being confined to such a godforsaken forlorn place. Everything is achromatic, lacking all colors. Immediately I hate this place, hate this cold, locked in chains forged not only from this gray stallion, but myself, my own shackles of anguish. I glance up, glaring at the bastard, yet I cannot stop a pang of fear blistering my heart. He seems emotionless, a sculpture of dark stone, legs and muzzle shadow-cloaked, a slender horn piercing the air, a piece of chiseled obsidian ending in a sliver of a sparkling deep blue. What chills me most is his eyes, like my own black ones, except his do not show a scrap of pity, only pride at the ability to capture me. Me! A pegasus! A Windtossed Foothills' leader! Which sends me back to my own herd, back to my worries. What of Nayati, my darling girl? Is the herd taking care of her? Goddamn it. And Evers and Archibald- did they know I was missing? When would a search party come? What if a trap was set for them? What if someone practiced torture on me here? What if, what if, what if. Keep your head high, Svetlana, and ask him what we're doing here. I tell myself, yet my nerves claw at the insides of my stomach. Somehow, I manage a few words strung together, devoid of any anger or submission in them. "So, unicorn, where is your manners? Why have you brought an injured mare here? I do hope that you have somewhere nice and cozy for me to rest my broken wing and swollen legs, not to mention my bleeding wings." As usual when I'm worried, my words begin to take on a sarcastic, flighty note.
|
|
|
Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE |
| RayoDeSoleil |
11-21-2012, 10:00 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-24-2012, 03:15 PM by Psyche.)
You can sleep with a gun but When you gonna wake up and fight?
She has discovered that weakness in inherent. It is a conclusion that she has come to most unwillingly, as it requires her to admit weakness in herself. And she is not weak, has never been weak. But she had a weakness, just as everyone else did; perhaps hers was only one, as opposed to the multitudes of the lesser beings, but it was a weakness all the same. And though she might refuse to admit it, she knew that should her weakness be exploited, she would crack.
Everyone cracked sooner or later.
She had watched them, forced them, really, to crack under the pressure of her interrogation, her infliction of their wildest nightmares. Her malicious eyes and haughty demeanor was fit for a queen, and few stood in the way of such royalty. Even the impure paid homage to her regal stature, once. Or they had tried to, before she cut them down like so many blades of grass, crushed under relentless hooves, cold detachment, icy fury. How dare they imagine themselves as high as she and her kin? How dare they fantasize that their place in the world was simply theirs. No, they belonged to her, and she would make sure they knew it.
They would not know her weakness.
She reveled in the recent successes of the organization, cruel smile playing over seductive features. The effect was haunting, both enticing and repellent at once. She was not beautiful, but she had an air that drew others to her all the same. Call it a natural leadership, if you will. Regardless, she had been brought an undecorated mare and a skyrat from the Qian's folds - she refused to think of them as the Edge herd - and in this she found relief from her thoughts. This was her saving grace, her distraction, her life - or so it was quickly becoming. It was easier to fall into old habits than to build new ones, be them with the FrostHeart or their little princess. Relationships had never been her strong point.
She was even more pleased upon noting the appearance of Deimos, and in tow another inferior for her entertainment. Her features became almost gleeful, though still menacing, a look that was altogether insane and calculating and all sorts of horror for the unfortunate prisoner. Her steps were quick as she danced across the terrain, slinking, almost feline in nature. She arrived to hear the stupid femme's words, and deigned to nod her greeting to Deimos rather than announce her appearance. She rather hoped to startle the fae, though she doubted it would be so easy as that. "Darling," she cackled, "I don't know what rumors have stuck in that featherbrained little head of yours, but there is no such thing as 'nice and cozy' here. Particularly not in the present company."
Everyone cracked; so would she.
[W/C | 478]
Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.
Psyche |
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
His eyes made a mockery of her, a narrowed, piercing gaze that lanced, harpooned, over her writhing, coiled rage, her helplessness, her inane, vacuous candor. Their ruthless upheaval, their heedless, barbaric quality cast an arcane shade of his reticent, rapier credence – she should have feared him in the hushed, dank corridors, in the anguish and despair of her shackles, in the gloomy haze of her future. She should have been repelled by his wicked grace, by his heinous elegance, by the chiseled slate of his savage, forsaken silence, the wretched, wrecked detachment of an infernal foe. So indifferent, so aloof, he was corruption, annihilation, despair, torture and torment, and could proffer any of these augured sentiments across her winged body; make her void of any thought, feeling, or existence. She could be devoured, consumed, and never heard of again, amongst the rubble and ruin of the walls, coating the earth with remnants of naught. Yet, she still cracked, persistent, sarcasm riddled from her voice, and the chilled behemoth, monster and devil, thought nothing of her commands, of her orders and requirements. Instead, his voice, rough, grating, harsh, made its sibilant debut, hissing in the formidable darkness, the only warning he would provide to her foolish countenance. “A prisoner has no right to demand.”
Resuming his silence, but not his brutality, he pulled the strings of his curse, felt the threads of the necromancy pulse, beat against his lungs, his skin, his veins, a sliding, sinuous ardor that poured along the remnants of his heart – a slinking, sadistic, serpentine arch of enchantment. The alluring, beguiling lethality clung to his frame until he allowed it to pour onto the cavern floor, lick and cling to the dank merchants of the merciless hall, touching, caressing, damning. It maneuvered across the ground, reaching Svetlana’s toes, dancing across her hooves, the promise, the oath, the vow, the guarantee that if she crossed him, she’d suffer. She’d beg, she’d pine, she’d whimper and crash into the whims of the earth, become dust, soot and ash. She’d remember anguish, she’d enamor despair, she’d reach for solace and find none in the great wake of treachery, in the seamless, puissant intensity of his machinations, of his calculations. The intimacy of peril, danger, scorched at her feet, simmered along her cracks, until after a few moments, he pulled it back into his core. His message had been delivered, and if she ignored the portended outcome, she’d find herself plunging farther into the depths of delusion, melancholy and menace.
Another malicious creature joined their midst, and his stare narrowed to glance at her briefly, this sneaky, specious harpy looming, presiding, in the absence of Mauja. She too possessed an enigmatic entity, intertwined in different forms, different appearances, different artifices that rankled ardent chains – he cared very little, and didn’t bother puzzling over her. If she proved herself a capable leader, he’d remain along the edge of loyalty. If not, then he’d find another venue, another way to proffer his gifts, his arts. He gave her a simple nod of recognition, and directed his gaze elsewhere, listening to her serpent tongue slash over the Chieftess’s words, and waited for the fracture, the rupture, of the winged mare.
|
|
|
|
Even with my rich, haughty voice, it held little effect on the stallion I had come to refer to within my mind as 'Death'. He, I felt, was an embodiment of evil, a cloak of choking evil following him like a plague. The sense of darkness seemed to seep through his pores, intoxicate the wild air around him. Brittle death, turning the grass yellow beneath him, the waves of nefarious powers glittering around him, nearly visible. And coming with the invisible wings of darkness came the pitiless stallion's voice, a voice bland yet somehow coloured with cold malice, even more cold than the air in the steppe. An unwelcome shudder runs down my back, down my bloodied wings and stiff legs. Who was this stallion, dragging me along as if he had all the rights in the world? As my thoughts were setting like a sunset, a sudden feeling hit me. Darkness infested my body, a thing too tangible for any sense of safety. I wanted to panic, to thrash around, to writhe and cry out for help and scream for someone, anyone, to come return the joy to my body filled with black. Black as night, black as the reaper himself come to cut me loose from this world. It wasn’t pain, no, it was much worse, it was as if every urge to live was being extracted from my body, replaced with an injection of cold death within my pores, coming to suck the soul from my body itself. I could feel it, feel this necromancer’s magic on my ethereal body, greedily draining me. My life was dripping through my skin, like a water slipping through slender fingers, quickly yet smoothly and flowing down.
Yet Death's embodiment withdrew his hungry hands from my mind, leaving me choking for air, gasping, filled with dread at his next movement. Uncertainty and terror is flooding me- my brain told me it had only been a few seconds, yet my heart was screaming lifetimes. I do not dare speak, for fear of that all-consuming black, stripping me of life. In fact, as I think this, my legs weaken. "Leave me free, sorcerer." I manage to chock, before I drop to my knees, glistening white powder chilling my skin, soaking through to the tender warmth within. Weak. Weak as a young filly, weak as my Nayati when I had first found her. Hot shame fills me, a simmering pot of anger and fury, and I struggle back up to my swollen legs. Pain and terror seems to be eating away at me, pulling me away already. No, Svetlana, no! I screech at myself, mentally reconnecting each brainwave.
I hardly notice the black unicorn, but one of my ears is distracted by the crunch of snow underhoof. My head whips around to the feathered and toothed mane, takes in the terrifyingly dark look of the mare. Yet I fear her less than Deimos, the stallion who can take your very soul, let you suffer... I shake away the dark thoughts, fluff up my wings against my silver back. Despite my fear, despite the mare's jaunts at me, her crooning voice speaking of a thousand horrors she was ready to commit, I taunt her. "Is that a unicorn I see? Too afraid to take on a mare who actually has her strength in place? Sweetheart, you should be able to see I will not give in to your fucking torture, asshole." My words turn into a snarl, a snap. I'm the cornered deer, surrounded by the wolves, tossing my antlers, and lunging forward, but I'm pinned down. I grin while I send secretive parts of my mind into lockdown, and hobble a few steps closer to her, each step sending a fresh dagger of agony through my legs, shooting red-hot through my wings and broken body. "You fucked up, honey." I spit at her black feet, eyes dark with hate.
|
|
|
Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE |
| RayoDeSoleil |
You can sleep with a gun but When you gonna wake up and fight?
She has never been one to give in to threats. In fact, she sees them as a challenge. What kind of challenge is unsure - perhaps it's a challenge against her physical prowess; perhaps it's a challenge against her mentality. Regardless, she takes well to such challenges, and it pleases her to her the taunting vocals, spawned from fear. She knew of Deimos' power, she knew that he would affect the skyrat in a most unpleasant way. In a way, the dark fae admired the stupid Chieftess' bravery - if it could be called that, perhaps it was simply stupidity - in the face of what she was sure was a terrifying ordeal.
She took a moment to reflect on the possession of Deimos - not that he was her possession, of course. He was distant, aloof, and so she knew she could not claim him as one of her own. And yet, that was simply his way. She would have to prove herself to him before he would truly be loyal to her; his loyalty to her cause, however, was unwavering. This she knew to be true. He had brought her a leader of the Foothills, a fae of incredible sway in the politics of the realm. For this, she was grateful. Perhaps he would accept a position of higher rank within her regime. But this would be a consideration for a later date.
The StormChaser was speaking now. "Is that a unicorn I see? Too afraid to take on a mare who actually has her strength in place? Sweetheart, you should be able to see I will not give in to your fucking torture, asshole." The shadow-mare smiled coyly. How adorable. "Darling," she told the broken femme, "If you'd like to stay longer and regain your strength, you are more than welcome. Not that you've got much choice, but -" a poisonous cackle sounded "- one must be a good hostess, musn't one?" It was a lovely joke, and one that she, perhaps, was the only to appreciate. The hatred beamed from her orbs, cutting into the jackal; it was the kind of painless wound that she was able to appreciate.
"It's not my torture you have to worry about, sweetheart. It's his."
[W/C | 358]
Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.
Psyche |
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Sadistic reverie; he could have witnessed her pain and torment for eons, writhing, shattering, shuddering against the shadowed walls of the cavern, pale and choking for sanctuary, never being bestowed the honor. Through her struggle, he remained resolute and reserved, the callous recherché of his countenance not illuminating the rapture of his cruelty, a cool, reserved, taut, motionless bounty of undulating muscle and darkness, grim, decadent, licentious. How much more would he have to push, press, against her soul until she splintered, severed and clattered to the floor in pieces? In shards of hysteria, in waves of clamorous, shrieking, useless fury? How long would it take to consume a righteous, virtuous soul, how long would it take to divest it of its glory and heart? Did she taste her destruction on the tip of her tongue, thick and swollen with the pulsing blood of her veins, glad to be alive and awaiting the next torturous assault? Did she cherish the air again as he released her, as the noxious blades of his rapier curse, brief but relentless, pilfered back into his lethal existence? Would she do something else for him to strip her of it once more? He grated against the air, harsh and ruthless, the wicked doldrums of his puissance, pernicious and infernal, drifting into the echoing munitions. “No. You will not have freedom.” Not until her usefulness had been fulfilled, not until her feathered body felt like a living corpse, not until her herd demanded for her vigilance and they could relish the mania in their eyes. It was a predator’s promise, a carnivore’s conviction, holstered to his raptorial chords, his stoked, stroked menace. For this was their supremacy, their fervor, their ardent, feverish hold on the earth – to let it slink away before the time was right would be a disappointing loss.
But she is revived – a harpie, a banshee shrieking in the breeze, rattling her chains for another wish that goes ignored. If here were a lesser being, one that admired instead of consumed, he may have found her tenacity amusing, lively, her perseverance a change in the glacial expanse – but instead he finds it foolish, vacuous, inane, and worthless. What was she going to do in her newfound dungeon? In her cruel oubliette? Too weak, too pathetic, too enamored by the noxious shades of his poisonous demolition, too unwise and rash, posturing tirades upon their blighted leader. Would she grant him another excuse to have his enchantments dance upon her toes, the deadly, coquette waltz of the devil’s opus, the lethal, formidable shades of the arcane, of the immoral? Would she lace her anger upon the other femme, would she gnash and grind against the forces binding her, would she ask for him to glide the beguiling treachery over her heart again, make her soul decrepit, wanton, and dissolute? For what Psyche spoke was the truth – he was the shadow she should have feared. In his brewing silence, he waited, patient for the opportunity of another strike, another siege, another assault.
|
|
|
|
Insulted and battered down. That was me in a nutshell. Bitter, bitter regrets, all yanked up by Deimos weeding my mind- except he took away the beautiful blossoms, replaced them with a weed that put its roots in deep, even though he had stopped his invasion on my mind. Magic. I hated magic. Bleeding, fucking, awful magic did this to me. It ain't proper. It's spikuk, damned sorcery that should be outlawed. Damn the gods for giving us mortals magic. It ain't right. I don't realize it, but as the fear grows on me, nibbles at my brain, I start reverting to good old Svikruchian. Jagnig mirun, logiin topar, hansalla vou morscha. I'm trembling, in fury and fear. Until Psyche speaks, and I draw myself back together for a furious volley back at her. I hopped back a few steps, avoiding putting pressure down on my injured fronts. It's true, I know it, but the black bitch needn't tell me. I already knew Deimos was the one to fear, the one to run from. I felt sick, so sick to my stomach, dizzy, at the thought of being attacked by his magic again. With a sigh, I drop my head, trying to breathe deeper. Jagnig mirun, jagnig mirun, jagnig mirun. I repeat to myself, delving ever deeper into my mind, retreating, shutting the doors as I accelerate along my mental path, whirling deep into my body. My soul is a small patch in my chest, hiding from pain he, the Devil, may enforce on me again. It's too overwhelming. But before I shut the final door to my small little home where any physical pain my body gives should not reach me, my head tilts and I look at Psyche straight in the eyes, and turn my head to Deimos as well. The words that come out of my mouth, doubtless, will make no sense to them, but I know what it is.
"Hrefar ligner." It's the oath of certain death, the vow of sworn enemies, the most solemn promise ever be given by me. It is my first one, my first Blood-Oath, and it shall forever be my most dangerous one. And then my body has shut down and I am weeping in the recesses of my soul, the doors closed to my house.
And as I shed a thousand tears within this piece of earth, my body is locked in stasis, legs planted solidly, eyes vacant. I will look like a statue, as I have been trained for enemy capture. When was the last time I was caught by an enemy? Hmm. It would have to be the Battle of a Thousand Days. I had been going under enemy lines to discover the plans of the soldiers, when I had been attacked by Opertative San, who had gone crazy with fear. Driven by his diseased mind, he had given the spies away, leaving us to suffer in the cells of the King. I had been released from the prison cells two, three weeks later, not without numerous cuts and bruises.
|
|
|
Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE |
| RayoDeSoleil |
You can sleep with a gun but When you gonna wake up and fight?
Perhaps the FrostHeart's disappearance had been a blessing in disguise. She had thought the world was coming to a close as she watched the cold, relentless nothingness wrap him in its clutches, pulling him in and up and down and turning him inside out and leaving nothing but his hoofprints as his mark on the world. For truly, what had he done? He had led the Edge in a failed battle, left his home in defeat, running from those inferior to him when he should have crushed them beneath the weight of his superiority. He had gathered them here, in this cursed wasteland, for the coldest, harshest Frostfall any of them could remember. He had disappeared when everyone - the shadow-mare included, had needed him most. So perhaps it was fitting that he left no trace.
But he had left his legacy in her black heart, and even now, weeks later, she strove to fulfill his wishes as much as she did her own. Still, perhaps it was better that she were the one to lead, to reign. She had ascended to the role easily, as though it were as simple a movement as breathing, and look what they had to show for it. d'Artagnan, Korra, and now Deimos had all brought prisoners to her, had all proven themselves and, through their actions, her leadership. Even better, they had given her the chance to prove herself as their Crux, as their queen. As they straggled back to her, the impure in tow, she had returned control to them. They had worked hard to secure these prisoners, and so long as they were under the control of the exiles, she cared little for their wellbeing.
And so it was with amusement that she observed the scenario before her. She was barely aware of the changes going on inside the skyrat's mind as she shuttered the windows to her darkest secrets. She took the hate-filled curse - she was sure it was a curse, though she could not understand the words - in stride, proffering a simpering, sweet smile to the mare in return. And then there was nothing in her eyes to convey emotion, thoughts, there was simply nothing. A dark thought crossed the jackal's mind: at least this stupid creature had not been swallowed by the same nothingness that pervaded her thoughts now. She turned to Deimos and, tossing her head gently, gave her instructions to him. "Do as you will with her. Should you uncover anything interesting, do let me know. Otherwise, my only request is that she remain alive, if only by a slim margin." And thus, she took her leave.
[W/C | 443]
[OOC | Psyche has left the thread. ^^]
Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.
Psyche |
[I think this thread is pretty much done and if it's okay I'll just have Svetlana wander around a bit in the Steppe ^^ I also know that Heather's away on Absent Abyss for a couple of days.]
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
Pale Princess of A Palace Cracked [Svetlana/Open]
