the Rift


In the Valley of Fear they Laughed (Cirrus)

Dawn Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#1
[Image: xpufk2.png]

Life is a perpetual dream.

It twists and turns as quick and sudden as an unexpected nightmare. Memories flutter off into the distance while the present becomes uncertain, surreal. The young stallion is truly lost here, in a world quite unlike the one he escaped from. He finds himself in the strangest situation, between crying out in joy or falling silent underneath the unfathomable possibilities that exist ahead. The thought that he is indeed entitled to something, his very own soul, sends his mind into shock and his fears into a scramble; so much so that they have reshaped and transformed into new evils.

And yet he finds himself here, on a battlefield. The smell of blood is tangible with the wicked air, restless and wild with the ironic scent of spring hanging on every swift move. It is still cold out, but not too cold now that the season has changed. It bites and crawls about his skin, it enters through his nostrils and burns his lungs briefly. A feeling, when compared to the frigid teeth that had sunk its poison and frozen his body, helps him focus and revel in its presence.

The sun remains high in the sky. Its coarse rays hit the ground, just barely, toasting the flesh wherever it reaches. Like fingers it draws down into the earth, stretching out and hitting the frosted grass. Small beads of water glisten across the field; the chilled ground is moist and nearly soft. The young colt continues to wander across the wide scene, with only the divide of earth and sky to accompany him. It is peaceful here, regardless of the fights that exist in these lands. It’s the perfect sort of peace, the sort that burrows itself inside your chest; for a moment or two there’s nothing to feel, worry, fear, it doesn’t exist. There is only calm that spreads out into this kind of quiet, a knowing that permeates from that peace. It’s perfect because it lasts for only a few seconds at a time, it’s rare, and it is precious, because the feeling is crushed by what the future tends to. The mountain of tasks that lend weight to the shadow it draws upon.

“I must wait,” he finally says. Words that will never be familiar to him, words that will always appear faked; when life has always been a game of life or death, lies have always provided refuge for the boy. He can no longer recall a time when the truth has saved him; those memories have long passed with the snow.

What attracts the former dancer? The boy has never fought in his life, ruthlessly once; but that was in the beginning. Even in this chapter, in this beginning he had fought, and with that fight he paid by the loss of his tiny crown. That beginning is a memory locked away in hues of red, shades of black. It thrives in its vault in his mind; its echoes alive; he can’t get them out.

They are why he’s stopped now. Why he waits alone on the horizon, certain that another will seek out the risks there are to a spar, a fight. He can still feel the chill that vibrates down into his head, the moment when he raised his head and speared his horn into the socket of a living creature. The gush of blood is a thought that fills him with disgust, enough so that he can’t stand himself. Dawn finds no justification in such an act, and wonders why that memory, of all his ill memories fails to bleed out with time.

He measures in a single breath in, another out. Standing still, his sooty body thirsts for some sort of stimulation. The pain in his head is something that reality can’t seem to help, can’t seem to fix.


[Hey! So if you want we could have intros and get right into sparing? The layout: wide field, frosty grass and slightly wet ground, it's in the process of thawing out. Clear blue skies with sun, very windy. Anything goes. I wasn't sure how many posts you want? I'm good between 5-7. Judged?]

DAWN
stallion of world's edge


Cirrus Posts: 233
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.1 :: 8 HP: 69 | Buff: SWIFT
Whit
#2

A leggy, yet confident step articulates itself from hooves that were hardened by desert sands. Feathered limbs rustle at the curves sides of the almost-two-year-old filly, a dark shadow of fur wanders in her wake. The young belle feels alive, very much so, and the clear blue skies paint her a matching blue, the tribal star upon her shoulder barely visible against the similar hue of her pelt. Her mane and tail, slightly deeper in their colouration, are whipped to and fro, knotting and weaving themselves into dreadlocks similar to that of her father's. The flicka walks with the confidence of a rockstar, and with the strut she performs, she may as well be one.

In her wake, a dark shadow of fur wanders also, the hellhound pup named Sitka. The bond that had fused their minds and souls together had been muted, but they were so new to it, they barely knew what to expect anyway. The duo walked in synchrony with ease, reading off each other's body language as effortlessly and perfectly as if their minds were in sync anyway.

A bark, sharp and direct, sounds from the muzzle of the hellhound. They have stopped their steps now, curiosity plain upon their facades. Two sets of electric blue eyes roam their way over him, drinking the pale splashes, the broken sword upon his face, the faraway, thoughtful mask he wears. The filly is too bold in her curiosity to turn away now, and so, with another singular step forced from her limbs, she creeps closer, and closer still. The fine, darkened muzzle reaches out, and samples the spring breeze for more information of this stranger.

"Who are you?" She asks, her bodice, slim in its youthfulness, several lengths away from him still, her approach angled at his left shoulder. Sitka stands to her right, silent for now, and too young to make a difference should anything physical result. He could always set the field on fire.. But that would serve little purpose today. For now, they would both wait, for a reply, a response, an action - or indeed, inaction.

[ Sorry for the wait! Cirrus will suggest they have a spar in her next reply if you like :-) Does 2 posts each sound good to you? I find anything longer than that tends to be drawn out too long, and I'd just like something short and sweet, and friendly ^^ ]


larfsalot.deviantart.com

as changing as unforgiving as the wind, as bitter and chilling as the cold, as warm and deadly as the heat


  • I enjoy being tagged.


  • please do not feel pressured into mirroring the length of any of my posts
    I write what I feel at the time
    and hope everyone else does the same c:



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