| World's Edge Moon Advocate |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2 :: 15 Buff: NOVICE |
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Kali :: Common Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Charks |
12-19-2012, 05:08 AM
(This post was last modified: 12-25-2012, 01:01 AM by Rishima.)
She stands beside her captive and doesn't say a word, her eyes harsh and stormy, a night sky devoid of stars. He cannot kill her, not with the aid of Kali's tightly clenched claws and the soft humming of a bronze amulet about her neck; but he is no harmless lamb, and both she and Kali are suffering from the effects of his magic. The pale gryphon has released him now, but is ready to strike at the first indication, watching him from her companion's back. The blood of his neck is barely dried beneath her claws, and she keeps him tenaciously captured in her icy gaze.
The mare is exhausted. Even standing in the stallion's presence has drained her strength, and it takes all her mental energy to keep herself from shaking - her bones ache and her muscles cry, but she cannot let him see her pain, her weakness. He must be the one who's beaten.
She would never have cared about him normally. She knew who he was because he had fought for the Edge, and she knew that he carried some weight among Mauja's group of unhappy horny brats. None of this would mean anything to her, none of it would have mattered, had the little clique not touched her sister.
Such things were unacceptable.
She speaks at last, her voice deep as they stand beside a campfire that Mirage built, the flickering flames lapping fierce shadows on her coat. "I don't want you," she murmurs, and even though she doesn't want to look at him she does, dark eyes intent on his own blue gaze. The light on his deadly horn is eerie in the twlight, and she wants to shudder at the idea of it piercing her delicate flesh.
She turns away.
"You took my sister. If yours give her back, you can go free. If not..." Kali growls, a feral sound from her perch atop the mare's back. The moonlit girl has seen more winters than this boy, has done more and hurt more. She may not want to resort to violence, but she has no qualms about doing what she must to protect her family.
![[Image: RishiRef.jpg]](http://i58.photobucket.com/albums/g240/xaiatora/RishiRef.jpg) |
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Vengeance, clattering and rampaging with cumbersome, worn layers, had rung its ugly chords again, pervading with the violent, haphazard din and clamor of turbulent, toxic blackguards, twitching and bewitching, assailing and sieging, always a righteous clatter for the opposition, always a disheveled, vexing position for the object. Upon this witching hour, he, terror and fear, been the creature absconded. The concept itself was an infuriating, seething one, where domination and supremacy fled, torn and ripped, leaving only the scintillating annihilation of his ravenous predilection burning, unforgiving, heinous, predacious, twisting the depraved shards of his ferocity until he became immersed in tranquil, primordial fury. The seditious mayhem coiled in his lungs, in his veins, in his soul, slinking and sidling, sliding and unwinding, wild, feral, caressing the wild springs of carnage, the lingering, enveloping possession of unholy, iniquitous devastation, treacherous mauling, and enigmatic immorality. The calamity rolled within his muscles, churned along the silken threads of his unholy grandeur, the forsaken, renounced friction, the animal indignation, the infernal, foul animosity brewing in callous, fervent derision. Devoured, consumed, by the hands of the enemy, Templar swords and blood crusades, stolen by the whims and chords of plaster saints and sanctimonious pietists, plunged and discarded into hypocritical pedestals and insincere shrines. Never satisfied, they doused the indulgences of their virtuous hearts and stalked the fancies of their benedictions, robbing, pillaging; weaving, lacing, lacerating the same threads his force, creed, bond, had pledged. Rancorous, clawing, pleading, yearning boils and barbs poking and prodding a hive of virulent, hostile world, committing another act with the pilfering of his form. Plucked from the fields of acrimony and entropy, locked into the oubliette of smug designs, and thrown into a familiar cell. Having sown the corners of the Edge a thousand times over, living in the cracks and rubble, the shadows and veils, there was no reveling in its existence or revering in the rapture of a former palisade to defend and honor, but merely, the circumstances that had led him to this infernal situation. The toiling, fiendish Tartarean gift bestowed to his pulsing sinew, his undulating influence, had been weakened.
He could still feel the devil’s threads whispering, a sullen, melancholy croon scraping against his insides, desperate and cloistered, corrupting and condemning, but otherwise sullen, tired, quiet. He registered the scraping of her companion’s claws, the draining, lifeless void that embodied his magic and fiercely snatched it away. A blessing, a curse, withered and exhausted, a diabolical machination that couldn’t revive its stance, couldn’t push its limbs to gather the sinister, nefarious inclination and appetite for abhorrence, listless, languid, spiritless, adrift by the screams of sirens. It left him with a strange, empty feeling, an arcane oeuvre without its artist, a warrior without his blade, a demon without its schemes and wiles, the wicked without its spells, the mage without his enchantments. The only interval of time he’d been bereft of the baleful, menacing contortions had been from his birth to early childhood, when innocence prevailed and arched, where the rapier edge of diabolical whims had not yet set in and he’d been free to touch, caress, without the repercussions of mortality, morality, and lethality blending into his motions. He’d been too young to savor fleeting moments, too foolish to become enamored with follies of seconds, minutes and hours - to become shrouded in the boughs of naught was foreign all over again. Was he altered now, fragmented from the incantations of heathens? Was he diminished, lessened, without the rampant decadence of ruin and destruction finessed, humming, from his irreverent brushstrokes? Was he broken, damaged, and weakened without the ravenous pull of his beguiling brutality? No, the rapacious strands thrummed against his hide, infirm and delicate, taut and slight – and he would show her, this dissembler, the very crux of his menace, the toiling, forbidding, minatory horror of his existence; he was far more than death.
I don’t want you - for a moment he could’ve uttered that no one did, but then he recalled the capricious tides of battlefields and devils, infidels and pariahs, and remembered that he sang upon fields of anarchy and bedlam. So, ultimately, like so many other moments before, Deimos said nothing. His features and movements were rendered in the same nonchalant, impassive stance, countenance chained to apathy, controlled and demanded into a rigorous, diligent impassivity – her words didn’t invoke emotion or sentiments, merely the lutes of war that continued on, piercing and puncturing. The chilling, cold gaze settled once upon the ivory griffin, then lingered upon the femme, and left a thousand cool convictions unspoken, raw, rancorous, brutal and savage. Given the opportunity, he would destroy the world set in front of him.
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Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE |
| RayoDeSoleil |
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She didn't know who she was more upset with: the Edge femme that had stolen her General, or Deimos for allowing himself to be stolen.
But she couldn't be too angry with him, she supposed. After all, that would be hypocritical of her, having only just returned from her own impromptu visit to the Throat. Dark thoughts clouded her mind as she remembered the arrogant stupidity of the skyrat that led them - Kri. The mare that had stolen a chunk of her nape during the invasion. Low, incoherent grumbling dropped like acid from her maw at the memory. What did she care if they held the leader (the thought was accompanied by a mental sneer) of the Edge? The unicorns had stolen none of the Throat's members, though they had tried often enough. Still, to the shadow-mare, failures did not warrant retaliation.
But now their success had brought retaliation, and it was for this reason that the jackal found herself returning to the misty forest that had once been her home. It was an odd sensation, to cross the borders and be immediately overrun by the stench of the winged and the hornless. Disgusting, how they had tainted the land. She was glad, now, that the exiled Edge had not chosen to return here to oust the Qian from power; instead, they had been blessed with a new, unpolluted land that bore no mark of the inferiors, save the slave Rapha. And he was obviously a slave, bearing the scent of his rulers more than he did his own smell.
The Dark Empress trotted haughtily through what had once been her lands, not bothering to try to conceal herself. She was here on a mission, and despite the hatred that she bore the mare that had dared steal from her, she wore an emotionless mask, concealing all but her superiority from any who may see her. Let them try to stop her. What were they, without their leader, save a ragtag band of miscreants with no direction? She snorted a laugh. With the inhalation that followed, she found Deimos' scent in the mix of smells that coated the land. She pricked her lobes, keen amber gaze watching intently for anyone approaching.
A low voice, female, caught her attention. She was not close enough to make out words, but it was enough: she started forward, easily slinking into the scene with no preamble. "Well, dearie, if you wanted her back, you could simply have asked. Nicely." The words were sweet, but far too cold, far too impregnated with fury, even if it was a soft, poisonous anger that dripped from her tones like honey. She would give Mirage back in return for the General. But she would have plenty of fun first.
[W/C | xxx]
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Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.
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![[Image: psycheicon.png]](http://i800.photobucket.com/albums/yy285/schwartze_asylum/psycheicon.png)
Please feel free to tag me in all replies!
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
| World's Edge Moon Advocate |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2 :: 15 Buff: NOVICE |
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Kali :: Common Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Charks |
The behemoth makes no reply, no acknowledgement but the coldly burning shade of his eyes and the impassive strength in his stance, and in a way she is glad. She does not need to hear his voice or see him grovel; she has no interest in his shame, only in his usefulness and ability to get her what she wants. She stares into the fire and she waits, waits for others to come, be they hers or his. Someone will; someone always does, and whether it takes minutes or months she will have her sister returned.
It is Kali's tensing muscles that tells her someone is entering the glow of the campfire, someone the gryphon holds no familiarity with. The moonlit mare does not turn to this newcomer, instead letting the scent of the stranger tell a story richer than any she will gain through words. She reeks of Deimos, of some land they must have made their home, of the place where Mirage must now be kept. She stinks of confidence and foul nature, and Rishima's black eyes harden as she awaits the shade's words, ivory tail flicking idly against supple hocks. The gryphon atop her back flexes deadly claws, but does not make a sound. "If I'm not mistaken, asking nicely has not worked in the past." Her voice is dry and void, edged in black humor and a threat - I can play your games. She has heard of the attempt to retrieve Solstice, and how well that worked out.
She turns now, and surveys the mare, her side to the stranger and Kali's attention now back to the stallion. Black, with white and feathers in her mane; dim recognition resonates against the mare's mind, but no name accompanies it. She would frown, but the stranger does not deserve that much emotion. Steps are taken, maneuvering, head high and expression blank. She would have liked for Mauja to come himself, or his doctor, but she will take what she can get. She snorts. "I assume you know what I want. Return Mirage here, safely, and I will release him on our borders." She tilts her head to the stallion, but keeps her gaze on this new one. The younger mare's venom means nothing to her, her anger a grain of sand in the desert of Rishima's wrath at her sister's loss. Let the unicorn play, let her whine and wheedle; she is unmoved.
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
He stood, waited, patiently recoiling in the arms of silence, scathing, seething, smoldering, lingering. The hushed blades of wrath, of contempt, of loathing, slithered against the parlor of his abhorrent prison, eternally decadent, licentious, iniquitous, corporeal corruption to the eaves, to the walls, to the simpering waves of delusion and grandeur. Iron and intimidation into hedonistic fibers, fostered by demonic art, entangled with Tartarean guile, immersed in the statuesque threads of a depraved, nefarious heathen, he stood upon the threshold of his oubliette and further chilled its core. His primordial treachery, his simmering, argent domination, his distorted, contorted puissance could not wither, could not decay even in the absence of Satan’s snares, composed over the dominion of his Stygian heart, poised in annihilation, prosed in supremacy. He was strength and fortitude, dominion and control; her methods of absconding could not banish, vanquish or disregard his oeuvre of chaos and irreverence. He destroyed, he ravaged, he ruined. What if she was his next massacre, bleeding and seeping along the tarnished, stained Edge, fallen from the cliff tops, reeling in the contorted layers of despair and melancholy, a success wrought to tragedy? His gaze remained fixated only upon the painted mare, stare a rigid, chilling, rapier design, the sumptuous, reeling opulence of remorseless, callous disregard. Voraciously detached, inhumane and merciless, he watched the tension in her companion’s muscles, the juncture of taut limbs, followed the course of their attention as Psyche came into view. Deimos continued in his nonchalant, inexpressive features even as she courted the air in her serpentine measure, in the calculating, manipulative expanse, stared at her from beyond the ridge of companion and equine. His cold eyes offered her heinous assurance, the debauched convictions, the savage oath of bestial motives, and remained hushed, immoral, unholy, waiting for that scrupulous moment when he could grind the earth into fragments, shatter it whole, soak in the arduous pull of devastation.
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![[Image: xpufk2.png]](http://i50.tinypic.com/xpufk2.png)
The wind carries a message.
Dawn is attracted by the scent that bleeds from its source. For which purpose he cannot quite place. It is not the primal urge to hunt what pokes and prods the herdland; rather, the restless need to define what connects him to the Edge. Too many days have blended all together, filling themselves with the whimsy of a repressed imagination. The mild flame that has guarded his heart grows and flares too brightly, consuming his nights with faces and voices he should remember. Extracting misplaced hopes and assigning them to fears.
This message is a distraction that forces him to weave in and out from the mists. The cool air tightening his flesh like taught leather, where the moisture has since clung and gathered. It makes his blood churn as his limbs cut through the air, fueling the heat that blooms underneath his flesh. It makes him feel mortal, alive as he nears the commotion. Met with a cacophony of voices that twirl before him, revealing the sources of the prevailing stench that seeps and twists among the trees.
Unicorns.
Just as the glow hits his body, opposite of where the equine stands, he can see their horns as clearly as ever. The mare reminds him of the nobles, who holds herself in regal debauchery, greeting the equine with her cool and shielded gaze. But to the equine’s opposite side there lies the smoldering prisoner, his gaze beaming into an endless night. Like the rough, sculpted statues that lined the monasteries he sits coiled. It is the demand that lingers in the air, for which Dawn has caught wind and now stands at a distance from the fire. He has made all of these observations before settling on the moonlit mare and the creature poised upon her shoulder. The message that had sent him here does not bleed from her; it is his growing assumption that she is one of the Edge. A stranger, but a friend among enemies.
He cannot be certain if his presence is required, or if it should trouble the mare further. But from where he stands he cannot see any others that have dissolved from the mists. It is a quiet communication then that lends itself into his gaze. It is steady, and it is calm. Given any command, he would follow her.
The connection breaks away to focus on the unicorn mare. Dawn’s senses have already heightened, but they anticipate the sounds of hooves from the stallion regardless. The statues never moved in the monasteries, they disappointed him when all they could do was grimace and snarl for eternity; but this one, this one would move with a force revered by the statues.
DAWN
stallion of world's edge
I Could Live On Hope quote
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| World's Edge Seer |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.2 hh :: 26 Buff: NOVICE |
| Whit |
The intruders, whether invited, stolen or completely unwelcome, would not waltz through my home unwatched. Very little passes by the vast knowledge of the lands that I possess - a knowledge that is ever-growing, expanding, changing. The mists that I stride though are thick, my pale hide is obscured, hidden, a flickering memory of a finely built unicorn walking between the twisted expanse of trees, rocks and caves. I wander now, towards an area of death, decay, though it is lesser than the last time I experienced such proximity with the steely steed.
I knew little of him, only enough to recognise his name, his face - he may know similar of me. Had I asked the mists for more information, I might have been leant more knowledge of him - as it was, I was able to deduce the reasons for his capture here today. The magic that permeated his surrounds was being contained, a curious eye rolls towards the gryphon, quietly admiring, and grateful for her action. The death of everything was not something I wished to see, not in the present nor my future.
Another comes, one of the Basin, this new land where our leader is held. I must commend them for holding her this long - but I must also show my support in the strength of my herdland. Everyone has moments of weakness, we had ours, and now they theirs - it was time to set the herds to rights again.
My chiselled tiara nods to Rishima, to the sister of our leader, whose love and devotion brought us here now. My eyes roam over the bodice of another, an unknown ally, and subtly I acknowledge him too. There was no harm, only strength, to be seen, in our support for our cause. Should the terms of the contract be refuted, well, that would be another matter altogether.
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Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE |
| RayoDeSoleil |
12-23-2012, 07:06 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-23-2012, 07:27 PM by Psyche.)
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"If I'm not mistaken, asking nicely has not worked in the past."
The words betray no emotion, and the shadow-mare approves of the older fae's nonchalance. She can play the game, this sister of Mirage. There is a blackness in her tone that could be a threat, though a subtle and well-hidden one. It is one that the jackal ignores. None will threaten her, or, at the very least, their threats will not be received. She is of a higher race; what can they do to her? Their hearts are not as cold as hers, as guiltless as hers. If they were to carry out their threats, she had no doubt that they would not mourn her - no, they hated her enough to be glad to be rid of her - but they would have qualms about the loss of life. They were weak. They would not follow through.
"Well, now, darling, did anyone try?" she asks, her vocals tinged with a lazy amusement. She has a fair point. They may have stolen, but they had been approached with hostile forces. The other herds had tried to steal from them in return. No one had considered asking what they wanted, now had they? Nor how to regain their precious leaders. "But no matter. What's done is done, wouldn't you say?" It is simple banter, prolonging the small gathering. And it really is turning into a gathering now; she senses the arrival of one, two more.
"I will give you Mirage," she says finally, keen amber eyes holding matte black. "Accompany us to our borders, and I will release your darling sister. Or don't, and I will allow her to find her way to you without an escort. It is for you to decide in which situation she will be safer." Her voice remains calm, though sickly sweet, and her orbs do not waver from those of the thief. "When she arrives here, I expect to see Deimos walk free." That is her offer; they would be wise to accept it.
[W/C | xxx]
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Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.
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Please feel free to tag me in all replies!
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 6 years |
| Blu |
A black rabbit nibbles at some browse as the meeting convenes. It had hopped by not long after the arrival of Psyche, having just hours before returned from the Basin as a hawk.
I had seen Mirage there, in this new land of theirs. The protectors had already marched there, though I did not see them their absence here suggested as much. Perhaps they had found Solstice instead. I wished them well, but I could offer them little aid in the Basin and had no time to search for them.
Quick as a fox I'd left the Basin after affirming Mirage was hale, and flown here as fast as wet feathers would take me. Exhausted from the magical and mental drain I'd slept until the anxiety of my knowledge eventually roused me from my dreamless slumber. If I had managed to stay awake perhaps I could have encountered Rishima sooner, or at least helped her steal this stallion. Although she is a capable mare, the risk is great.
I discovered her now, in this event. I stay hidden, for I am of little use as a warrior and even less so as a negotiator. I serve better with absorbing all I can, so I hunker down, my soft fluffy tail gently dripping against the forest floor.
Yes, the risk is great.
Even now I feel that crawl in my spine as a sensation of magic reaches out to me. It's weak, but it pulls at my ink, stretching the substance out. It makes it run more than normal. My outline is not as crisp, my motions not so solid, just barely so. I watch the stranger, cautiously curious as to who he is and what he does. I have not felt such an effect on my ink since the sun's wrath dried me up.
As a hare I proceed to mind my own business, feigning to browse on the shrubbery while they attended to their government. Long ears twitch. My hearing is no better, but I am close enough. They likely will not notice me, who would be watching the forest with such politics at hoof? But I am in sight, and my pelt remains black, though I stick to the shade of these woods and the fog.
I N K
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Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
| World's Edge Moon Advocate |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2 :: 15 Buff: NOVICE |
|
Kali :: Common Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Charks |
[ ooc || I'll reply as soon as I have a minute, but Rishi's gonna agree to go with them to the border and invite the others along if they want, in case you wanted to throw a thread up before I get to this, Rayo ]
Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE |
| RayoDeSoleil |
[OOC | I'll throw one up tonight, or at least I plan to. It may be tomorrow or the day after /fail. EITHER WAY. It shall happen.]
Please feel free to tag me in all replies!
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
Lace the Silverthorn Posts: 459
| Deceased atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5 |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 14 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Fajira :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath
Chan |
He watched and listened to the conversation from the shelter of the trees of the mist. Part of him was relieved to hear that Mirage would be coming home soon, but the other part was not so complacent, not quite as content. Why did they have to bargain with these people? What did the Edge owe the Basin, that hadn't been payed tenfold already? If this was still a matter of revenge for the Invasion, then their grudge had been mulled over for far too long, so long that it had to be festering and old by now.
Why could they not just leave the Qian alone?
Such reckless hate, such pathetic simpleminded thinking. Lace almost felt sorry for the black mare where she stood, so suave and so unpleasant. Did she believe herself to be in the right? What right could anyone have to steal innocent ones from their home, hold them against their will and not return them when their family came to bring them back. None, nothing. And yet they were never satisfied.
Quietly seething, the warrior-turned-craftsman tried to contain his impatience. He wanted to run off now, run against the wind until he reached the borders of the Basin once more - until he could see the face of his leader and closest friend beyond Fajira again. To make sure that she was safe.
But he would wait. Rishima called the shots at this point, and anything he might do would only jeopardize the safety of their DragonHeart.
♦ Permission granted to use magic and violence on Lace and Fajira
♦ Only tag in new threads, spars and if it's urgent
The Store | The Warden
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