the Rift


a deadly sword, a healing hand, lena

Déodat Posts: 174
Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx
#1


In all his life, Déodat had never ventured so far from home and had certainly never endured such a journey. The perils and dangers he had faced over the winter were too numerous and frequent to recall, as if the wind had blurred them from existence. Though the though was not a comforting one, his body had coped as well as it could for such little vegetation during his journey. He did not feel pride, or any other sense of emotion in regard to his survival of the last battle of the Clans. Survival meant nothing if achieved alone.

He only felt great weariness.

He'd found the spring mid afternoon, and had been wading in the water ever since, blowing his own bubbles with childish glee (when none were near, of course) in addition to the gurgling spring. The wounds lashed across his back and chest from the war had not yet healed, even though they were covered with damp scabs. The gashes emitted a foul, decaying smell and oozed a thick substance that reminded him of tree sap. Not to mention he smelled like rancid farts, thanks to the sulfurous stench of the springs. Disgusting. He was no healer, but he had enough sense to know that his wounds were infected. Perhaps he should make and appointment with d'Artagnan, the doctor, he thought snidely to himself.

But of course, his manly pride simply wouldn't allow it.

The relief and joy of seeing family again had long since faded. It had been foolish of him to dare hope d'Artagnan would welcome him with open arms, for the ex-warrior—now doctor, Déodat corrected himself—did not value family and comradeship such as Déodat did, but that was to be expected. In the Clans, deep family feuds were not healed with time—they were healed with swift and terrible vengeance. The two cousins resembled each other fiercely with their shared likeness of the roaring fire in their hearts and pig-headed stubbornness, and perhaps that is why it seemed they were simply destined to clash and banter and fight all their lives, despite now calling the same place home.

Smiling vaguely to himself, Déodat wouldn't prefer it any other way.

His smile was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain, as the expression cracked the scabbed wounds across the bridge of his nose. He settled deeper into the hot spring water, enjoying the warmth cleansing his skin and soaking into the depths of his aching bones. He blew a few more bubbles, and was soothed by the bizarre tickling sensation in his nose.

déodat,

image credits
[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
con by aihnna@dA




Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather
#2

There is love in your body but you can't hold it in,
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin,
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks,
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

Lena, fae and fairy, drew from the platitudes of sky, air and earth, drank their sentiments, the chilling breeze that whispered along vast courtyards, the wild, arduous eaves that begged for growth, immersed her ethereal charms into its welcoming arms, wondered, hoped, and pursued. Driven by purpose, motivated by selfless ambition, she’d spent her hours scouring this newfound world for inspiration, delving into the tides of enigmatic clouds, the silence of the cool, callous tundra, the frosty indentations left upon pine and fir. She found shelter in the rocky outcrops of the mountains, slid and danced in the heart of the valley, nestled somber gazes into her restless fervor, reflected upon the realm with the kind, tender nuance of her elegiac stature. She poured her lone minuet, her sole waltz, her whimsical fantasies, her fanciful raptures and reveries into the placid, listless scenery, rendered it wholesome in her passing grace, in her affectionate dignity, in the flight of mercy and compassion, birds’ trills, flowers’ petals. Like an aimless wanderer all over again, the elegant Romani, the enigmatic gypsy, she provided radiance to the earth with the most idle, nimble tracings, always searching, always rummaging, longing to be granted the influence, the catalyst for her augured, presaged song. Could she trill about the land, the auroras that pressed against the horizon and sank them into a palisade of brilliant hues, the reverent swing of divinity an aid, a guide, a willing teacher? Could she chant about hope, fostered in the deliverance and aspiration of her brethren, a cherished renewal of yearning, longing passions? Could she chirp, hum, cry for the salvation of her kind, of the horned, of the war-torn, of the shelter, of the sanctuary? What would render her brethren assuaged, the revival of their land, the well wishes of her generosity? What would be the right note, the right chord, the stanza and lyric to assuage and harmonize, to mend the broken?

The chase for the influential catalyst only enamored her further, captivated, fascinated, enchanted by the runes and puzzles of the quandaries of invocations, and her frame followed this confident affair – twisting, contorting, dancing, free and untamed, lavish and ethereal, contained and tethered only by the strings of vehemence, of her radiant intensity. Beguiled and allured, she was ensnared by the dulcet croons and the feverish dreams of optimism, limbs pulsed along snow, sprung from the brisk, crisp embrace of its icy hold, relishing the touch, the promise, the conviction of her invigorating premise. She’d never held a dream so aloft, so possible, so regal, she’d seen too many wilt, wither, decay and rot, she’d never been given the opportunity to truly bestow the bliss of her affections, the divinity, the virtue of her humanity and morality. Now, she encompassed the covenant like a gift, unworthy and unsuitable, but still staunch, stalwart and valiant, longing to reach the pinnacle of her inclinations and aspirations.

She shifted towards the hot springs, beating the steady crescendo of soft hums along the kingdom, a billowing, sweet, honeyed stroke of optimism, prosperity, graceful, unearthly, bound to heaven and hell. The temptation of warmth guided her across the vacant, hallowed terrain, entrancing and invigorating, and her thoughts strayed to the wonder, fascination and admiration of its blessed presence within a glacial, Siberean world – did muse live here, in the frothing, fizzing tides of heat. The affectation was cut off almost instantly when her amiable gaze settled upon a form churning about the water, blowing bubbles into the cool air. She almost giggled, almost offered a laugh to combine with the curling, unfurling vapor that would rise and segment itself into riveting, enthralling spells, but her stare became fixated upon the wounds crossing over the stag, and the chuckles dissolved, empty and hollow, unheard. She didn’t know him, unfamiliar and foreign, but his lacerated, injured body was a damning reminder of many things, the affecting, looming chords of war, the chiming echo of defeat, that choking, suffocating silence of brutality that lingered in her own blood, in her own chasm of seclusion and serenity, tranquility and turbulence. The nymph frowned slightly, struggled to escape the bind of poignancy, the ensnaring rope that pulled and tugged over her features until valiancy provided the course of perseverance again, and a smile blossomed once more, fragile, but corporeal, distinct. Her approach was soft, silken webs of elegance and grace, a finesse kindled by mystical design, affable, gentle and genial, until she lingered on the edge of the spring, nearly touching the molten liquid, emboldened on its simmering bank. She didn’t shy from the stench, sulfur and infection, didn’t pull herself away from the gruesome, grisly sight of barbed, aching gashes, and instead, traced those arduous hopes and dreams across her features, sought his in the balance of cracked air and slashed sinew, a grin, a beam. Tilting her regal head to his immersed body, a provision gathered across her lips, parted the songbird’s mouth, and drank the mellifluous notions of hope, dreams and nurturing contortions. “I’m Lena – how can I help you?” Then, she pondered again, caught the curiosity of this stranger, wondered where he’d been, what he’d done, and what he wished to become.




Déodat Posts: 174
Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx
#3

Déodat sank into a numb stupor, lulled by the steam and scalding water into a world of restless dreams colored raw and red, and echoing with the cries of the dead and dying. He lingered between the state of uneasy sleep and restless daydreams, eyelids trembling like the murmur of butterfly wings as he struggled to stay in the waking world, but his head drooped and his lower lip slackened like a child who had exhausted all its energy during afternoon playtime. Fever consumed the red stallion, sapping the life from his veins and the fire from his heart as if it were poison, and the pressure swelled in his head until it seemed his thoughts could no longer fit in his mind.

It would pass.

Or so he hoped. He didn't know if the bubbling spring water would help, but it brought him a sense peace and tranquility that life blatantly refused him as of late, and the warmth settled into the nooks and crannies of his aching bones and his feverish shivers ceased. In his restless dreams, fleeting images of family, friends, and the blue mountains faded in and out of existence.

First, his mother's sweet wildflower scent overwhelmed him, contrasting sharply to the exotic war paint coated in thick lines across the bridge of her nose, and then the colors faded and swirled and reformed into his father's stern, unyielding lips—always thin with frowns and disapproval. And lastly, his youngest nephew. A thin line of blood trickled from a soft, vulnerable mouth. The boy had been no older than yearling. Then, the mountains reared into the sky—vast, gray, and cold.

Suddenly, he plummeted from the sky and plunged into a scalding ocean.

Déodat floundered in the spring as water flooded his nose, coughing with thick hacks that wracked his body as his spine snapped straight and his muscles groaned with resistance as he heaved himself from the spring shallows to a standing position. His weak legs trembled, but he forced himself to stand tall. Water dribbling from his soaked chin as he narrowed his eyes in a scalding glare that nearly rivaled the temperature of the spring water. Almost instantaneously, his dark gaze fixed on a mare the stood near the water's edge, gazing at him with a curious expression. He snorted with annoyance.

"Can't a fellow get some privacy?" he snapped heatedly, although he was more upset with himself than anything for allowing her to sneak up on him. He shook his head, wild black hair, thick with snarled tangles and dreadlocks slapping wetly against the thick muscle of his neck. He peered at the stranger more closely, uncaring if he made the girl uncomfortable with his open scrutinizing.

"Well then? Be quick and speak up, girl," he said sharply, failing miserably in his pitiful attempt to rein in the sudden flare of his hot-headed temper.

She was plain, but not in an unpleasant way. There was something about her eyes, and the way her soft expression brought light to the hollows of her face caused the coiled knots in his shoulder to relax. Beauty was not something Déodat cared for in a mare—he far preferred strength and spirit over the quality of one's appearance. That being said, he didn't particularly care for Helovia's plethora of outlandish creatures with elaborate designs and colors, and so he was quite pleased with her modest bay coat.

Beauty did not win wars, after all.

But she remained incredibly collected and unfazed by his gruff demeanor, something that he found both vexing and admirable. Her voice was just as gentle and soft as he'd imagined it to be, and it reminded him of the murmur of dry wind through meadow grass, or the sweet song of meadow larks at dawn. She wished to help him? He blinked in surprise, and his lips pursed in a thoughtful, confused frown. Regaining some sense of civility, Déodat merely sniffed disdainfully instead of snapping at her again. "You cannot," he growled resolutely. Weariness suddenly plagued his body, and he sank into the steaming shallows once more with a heavy grunt of both pleasure and pain.

déodat,

image credits
[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
con by aihnna@dA




Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather
#4

There is love in your body but you can't hold it in,
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin,
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks,
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

Lena bloomed in adversity. A flower of misfortune, a floret of calamity, desolate, alone, she’d sculpted resilience from fragments of her life, collected and weaved, laced, the calamities she’d seen into morality, into benevolence and hope, shorn the frayed ends until they too became dedicated taffeta of virtue. From these whimsical tides she embodied the grandeur, the radiance, the reverie, of considerate, tender, warm-hearted bliss, hope taut with arrows of deliverance. From the cold, chilling winds she captured the soothing rhapsody of might, from the glacial greetings of others she embraced daydreams, from the tremulous, turbulent wake of enemies she fastened perseverance to her helm and charged into frays of wickedness and malice, confirmed and conformed her dignity and honor to menacing damnation. She opened her petals to the wake of the world and allowed herself to be drowned in the weight of darkness, in the shades of evening nightmares and light of dawn’s enlightened cretins, soaked them in the looming presence of her magnificent ardor. She led herself to slaughter, to annihilation, and retained the wholesome fibers of her warmth and dedication, the elegancy of her finery, the ambitious aria. She waited and coasted on the waters of abhorrence and loathing, contempt and villainy, walked through fire to retrieve a wavering soul, protected and illuminated. Her power, her brawn, her distinction, came from the raw tides of insurrection, the binding, blinding effort to discard the trembling inadequacies of another time and place, to replace the dying, withering mantles of sorrow, of anarchy, with twisting, winsome desires and hallowed spirits. It was a barely noticeable prowess, sliding as an assuaging balm, the arch of a smile, the curve of a grin, forgotten in the trace of monstrous contortions, lost in the seditious claims of her brethren. A hum, a hymn, quiet and mellifluous, slinking into the wicked arches of shade and nocturne malice, tranquil and serene, tracing the ruminations of distorted souls, unraveling their infidel claims, the devil’s sketches, letting the wings of her chirps, her warbles, to soak into their entities. Is this where muse traces the hollows of the mind, in tumultuous dins and lawless outcries, inspiration and influence sparked by catastrophes?

She was not surprised when the stag concocted the same wires of so many others, pushing, slashing, her away, the snap of his voice, the treacherous slate of his temper, the inferno that laced the contours of his frame uttered the barb, the promise, of his sword, the weight of his menace. Yet, she remained, that unruffled augur in the eaves of formidable designs, tossed from heaven, allowed to join the webs of corruption, composed, regal, firm. The delicacies of her puissance echoed in the silent stretch of compassion, she watched as his body suffered, as his structure melted into the spring, entangled in the haunting onslaught of pain, of fever, of infection that stretched over the sulfur and bled into her eyes. The slyph ignored his words, unperturbed by their menace, a likely formation of agony and discomfort, and slid her body into the righteous clamor of might and petulance. Light, airy, soft, dignified and poised, her lissome limbs courted the bank, infused with the heat and warmth of the fount, dipping her hooves into its tender assurance. He ran his eyes over her, and she did the same to him, unabashed and undaunted, honeyed stare fixating on the portal of wounds wound around a muscled figure, a warrior in the mist, not broken, not burdened, but in a stitch of time that required recovery; her fellow companions had been the same after the invasion, somber and bleeding. His words cut across the air, but didn’t damage her heart or hinder her ambitions; they sliced nothingness, shifted naught. His sneer, his growl, his gruff complexity only further traced the traversing of her aspiration, heightening her enigmatic, intrepid, valiant prowess. Her grin never strayed, blossoming again, and the dulcet tide of her voice surfaced, glimmered from an amused mouth. “You don’t know what I can do.” She’d made Korra the savage play, she’d made Mauja the Frostheart smile, she’d pervaded the earth with the tones of her rhapsody, her consonance, her elegant ministrations, and she’d make this stallion whole.

Sunshine and roses, she plunged into the water, felt the warmth grace her hide, lift her spirit, shuffle her peaceful entity into endless exultation; it was no wonder he’d made his way into its depths, desperate to be consumed by something painless, something assuaging, something carefree. It was an overwhelming elation, whispering over her shoulders, crooning and murmuring sweet nothings in her ears, a ridiculous sense of enjoyment she couldn’t savor – there was someone suffering, and she was not so wicked, so vile, to wax poetical while another ached. She drew her frame close to his, heartbeat’s brushstroke away, stare fixating on the lacerations, not wincing, not shying, guiding a steady crescendo of airy, ethereal sentiments. Her lips conjured a query while attentions were demanded elsewhere, perusing the scope of his needs, how far she’d have to push her influence, her impulses, her catalyst. “What is your name?” Then, another melody pushed past her cordial mouth, muted harmony, faint, indistinct, an unwritten song waiting in the corridors. Her heart, a silken clamor, stirred the restless tidings, allowed the hum, the hymn, to disperse further, until she felt the pull of her power, rustling, fluttering, eager for the right words to flow across her mind, her soul, her tender nuances to embrace the whims and mercies, the violence and harshness of his essence. It floated, quivering wisps of air and vapor, across the spring’s haze, full of promises, full of hope, slinking over the enmity of his wounds, pausing, lingering, loitering, eager to mend and end suffering, until she’d conjured lyrics from the canvas of his influence. Just one more segment of information to summon the rhythm, the sonnet to grace the realm, and while the trill enchanted her throat, she postured another solemn inquisition. “How did you acquire these wounds?”




Déodat Posts: 174
Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx
#5

You don't know what I can do.

The words brushed the deep layers of his consciousness, as if very far away, over the distant mountains and straight through the horizon line to worlds away.

Déodat didn't care what she could or could not do.
He didn't care about much of anything anymore, really.

A great weariness overcame him, enveloping him like the heavy layers of steam that curled from his skin and the surface of the hot spring water. He ensued a different tactic this time around, closing his eyes and resting his head on an overhanging ledge while his wild hair spilled over the edge like a snarled black waterfall and floated eerily not the surface like the many tendrils of the deep sea creatures only heard about in stories told be the elders. Perhaps if he could not scare her away with nasty manners he could bore her to death, and in the meantime, take a well-needed nap.

But it seemed this Lena, as she had called herself, was neither feint of heart nor easily deterred once her mind was made up, and it seemed she was simply determined to invade his personal bubble and and ask him incessant questions he'd rather not answer. He opened one eye in a narrow, cat-like slit, watching her movements suspiciously. He did not trust strangers; not even one with so gentle a countenance. Nonetheless, the great red stallion allowed her to draw near (as if he had the strength to prevent it otherwise) without shying away from her closeness and remained quite motionless. A sweet scent suddenly clouded his senses and his eyes drifted to a close as a leaf swirls to the ground in the height of a windswept autumn. He suddenly felt as if he were floating, first lounging in the sweet grasses of a sunny mountain meadow, and then rolling in a field of wildflowers in full bloom, the thrum of bees all around him.

Again, a distant voice reached out to him, gentle and soft, like the cotton that drifted from the heights in late summer. "Déodat," he said at last, his voice a mere sigh, and felt as though the name no longer belonged to him, as if he had been Déodat the General's son in a different lifetime. The name tasted foreign and strange on his tongue—stretched too thin for too long, and left in the sun to bleach and fade from all memory. Though it was not a difficult to question to answer, he struggled to string her words together, pondering and wondering, his head thick and heavy with building pressure. "What does it matter? There is nothing you can do for me."

déodat,

image credits
[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]
Cut from the cloth, of a flag that
Bears the name of "Battle Born"
con by aihnna@dA




Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather
#6

There is love in your body but you can't hold it in,
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin,
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks,
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

A wondrous heart was perhaps the only gift her parents had ever given her. Like blinding opposition, glowing resistance, Lena had formulated the tender embrace of repose and radiance, instead of the chaotic, fraying, unraveling chords of violence and rancor. She immersed herself into doldrums of relaxing dedication, allowing the glimpse of her power of alluring, bewitching, beguiling cordiality to ring aloft when necessary, and otherwise, drifted on the open sea of compassion and generosity. Even now, when the din of resentment and animosity flickered against her composed beneficence, she scarcely swung from her goals, from her aspirations, from her dreams. She discarded and ignored the grumbling barbarity of his voice, listening to the rhythm of the spring as it lavished and lacquered the world into a mesmerizing haze, filtering the coolness of his potency into the warm, tranquil mist and fog. Where he bit and tore into the ethereal air, she courted strings of satin, where he growled and roared, she strung taffeta and lace in ringlets of persevering strands, aloof and indifferent to the toils of his apathy and vitriol. She pressed into the fancies of the water and allowed it to sift into her sanguine spirit, felt the ambrosial qualities of her beneficence prosper, thrive, in the bulrushes of caustic, trenchant facades, cool and collected, lithe and lissome. Honey and lyrical, like a lilting, fluttering bird, she practiced his name across her lips, postured it for the wild thickets and morose mountains, the silent frost and the kindest shades of nocturnal veils. “Déodat.” Fay, complexities and simplicities, she smiled again, allowed the grin to flicker in the empire of morose conjectures and scathing, derisive sentiments, turning inky, sable destruction into gilded treasure. Pressing closer to his form, her eyes inspected the sinuous slashes, the feverish agonies, the ailments lacerated into his warrior physique – and even when he refused to tell her of how he’d acquired such callous wounds, she presumed assaults, sieges and armaments, clattering and screaming, savagery embroiled into another world, another kingdom, but couldn’t forget the din of her own violence.

She stepped back, gave him space, and studied the formulation of her next vocals. She felt the tender slide of her hum echo and vibrate in her throat, gesturing to the impulse of her slender harmony, waiting to be awakened by the clatter of her restless entity. Inspiration, found, locked, and sealed within her chest, began to build its crescendo, a passage of music guiding the steady stream through her vocals, heartfelt hymns and quavering clamors of satin and silk. She conjured, evoked, summoned and enchanted the alluring grasp of mellifluous trills, warbles and arias, invoked the lingering brushstrokes of her artistry into the Stygian resolution of chaos and mayhem; a song to heal, assuage and mend. Closing her eyes and parting her mouth, she caressed the catalyst of her heart and crooned.

“For king and country,
For crown and land,
Into your heart,
I’ll sow a healing hand.”


A pause in the melody, before she sculpted another stanza into the sweet chords of her deliverance, of her salvation, of his suffering, of his misery, destroying, dispelling sorrow by bestowing harmony.

“Chase away the sorrow,
And forget the pain.
Erase the anguish,
And omit the refrain.”


The reverie, the bliss, the incantations, poised in the labyrinthine influences, carved amongst the brooding violence, lightly, softly, touched the barbs of his wounds, and began, all at once, to relieve.





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