the Rift


master of nothing place, of recoil and grace

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#1
There is no goodness left here, no shamble, shard or fragment of morality left in the barb of his sodden blood. The mottled brine of his salvation is no more, gone, vacant and hollow; content to wither and die with everything he caressed. Like a blade, he lived in the darkest ardor, dangerous, cunning, rapacious, and callously cruel against the maladies of yesteryear’s fallen fortunes, insolently intending desecration in the midnight strife of harkening, strident overtures. He plunged against the earth, contorting the brilliant conveyance of vicious toxicity, the hiss of steel caressing one last fatal kiss in cool calamity, the final twist of poisonous rapture singeing malleable flesh in a silent, nocturnal reverie. Frigid, statuesque effigy poised in the unholy audacity of blessed malevolence, withering harmony and discordant strife, the rancorous immersion of deadly, virulent savagery slashed upon his entity and made him whole along the intertwining eaves of gloomy silhouettes. Suffocating, stifling power in dipped brazen arts, fluid macabre eloquence, craving vindictive entropy in the chained links of sin and desecration, too wicked, too vile, too corrupt for the babes of heaven to cherish or praise. Brutal, ruthless, condemned, he wandered with a thief’s mind and a barbarian’s swagger, a ruffian’s hushed muse to a warrior’s poetic finale. He crept and stalked and brooded in that fine, hedonistic endeavor, heartless amongst the chronicles of torment and lechery, a behemoth in the solid foundation of felled paragons, a brute in the heated baritones of vagarious footfalls. He did not dream, did not hope, did not wish, only plotted, schemed, and conspired with that marauder’s striking gleam and that stoic’s imposing figure, blending seamlessly into the evening’s courtship of scintillating subterfuge. Each step was rigidly calculated, there was no harsh cacophony of snapping twigs, fatally coarse in their fallen, chiseled state, no lush, feverish balm of discordant stumbling or trampling mercy – merely the fine finesse of a slithering cutlass, a scythe brimming in lithe tracks, molding into the scenery of twilight anonymity. Carnal monster carved from the handsome heathens of feral lust and primordial yearning, his lean columns reached to the breadth of a whisper, solidified in tones of debauched mastery, stroked the sultry, midnight cords of haunting dusk in the softest, lightest embrace, threatened and loomed in the same instance, pulsed feverish calculations of medieval misery. Undulating, animalistic fervor brushed and floated against pewter insurgency, rumbling growls of despair echoing from the bounty of their plum forest, a poignant minuet composed by the decadent phantom. Eloquence and elegance in the radiant frame of bewitching danger, an allure of deadly armaments, bent and yearning, threads of vibrant hostility made to chill in glacial webs of stone and impassivity strove into the onslaught of finery, the dazzling, hot cords of primal power and dominance. He was the distinction, the sumptuous display of ethereal potency, that gave delicate poison and humming rapiers an even sharper gleam.

”Nay, no more!” – the land screamed as he scorched their wild, listless hands, watched with chilling approval as the terrain gave way to his demonic contortions. Feverishly they sank, dwindling with a final, rapid breath, deluded, lifeless pinnacles. Over and over, he lacerated streams of existence, entities of unsung harpsichords with his sinister, nefarious frame, mage of death. Lacquered by the seething concoction of noxious toxins and virile tenacity, they roamed in weathered, tattered frays and rose to meet the sun time and time again with the same vicious intent, to consume each lasting thread of might that defied their beating, bleeding hearts. Villainy was his passionate indulgence, a searing mantle of disgrace torn and encased in the malicious entertainments of specious smiles. Contempt hailed and bathed in his artful, slender machinations, so brilliantly wicked in the condemning essence of love and hate, insurrection in the most deceiving grins. An archaic demand fueled by hostility and urged on by the ravenous resplendence of triumph and ruthlessness, searing, blistering, and scorching in the cascading windfalls of petulant menace, madness and malice.

Malice never struck so rapidly as sin gave into sin, strangling compassion in the contemptuous breadth of limited hours, intimidation in the duplicity of fervent artists. The air rumbled and scorched in stifling intricacy, bleeding licentious credence over the bows and arches of sweeping, plumed cavalcades. This was not where he was born, amongst the swooping tides of dune and sun, and perhaps this was the only thing that humbled his swarthy, silent movements. A threatening, callous bounty of sin and iniquity, twisted into the rigid entity of havoc, a taciturn, reticent menace twined in the anarchic solemnity of corruption, he stared, rustling apathy in the cool balm of his sinister, argent glare. There was naught here to recognize; scorched earth, burnt shambles of former beauty, a cliff dangerously concocted amongst the abyss. He snorted, but otherwise did nothing to convey his disappointment, fostering indifference with a stoic resonance. Quiet in his abhorrence, his calculating air drove him onward, taut and collected, his muscles wound with precious, sanctimonious control, authoritative with his savage steps, pulsing nonchalance, apathy, in the cruel architecture of weightless motion. Ceasing movement at the pinnacle of a nearby prominence, he said naught; the tyranny of his gaze, the anarchy of his presence, the bedlam of his essence, existence, had already warped his appearance. Homecoming for the wicked.




Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#2
Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign

His home had burned.

The Sun had swept in, angry and childish, and set the dry trees on fire. Once it had gathered in intensity and size there hadn't been much he could do to stop it, and as if to somehow make everything worse, Mirage and her followers had swept in. Why the hell had they come there? They had nothing to do with the Edge, nothing to do with the Sun, nothing to do with Mauja! Though, he probably would've been equally annoyed with anyone who happened upon them in their time of disgrace. The pale King hated fire, and he hated surprises, especially fiery divine surprises, such as an angry Sun God setting his home on fire. Fire made everything worse, including having a bunch of Moon worshiping equines gallivanting around his flaming home. Mauja snorted, and leaned against the charred tree stump. Soot had smeared him more gray than white, and just like everyone else he had his fair share of burns. The fire had gone out, but not before most of his forest had been reduced to ashes. Still, ashes were fertile, it would regrow.. They would regrow. Rebuild. And one day he'd rip the flaming star from the skies and toss it into the ocean!

Well, he could always dream, and dream he did in his rage, and in his nightmares of infernos. Waking gave him nothing but pain and the honor of seeing his home reduced to a pile of rubble, and sleeping gave him nothing but a galloping heart and the sour taste of fear when he woke, sweating and shivering. He'd drifted away from his herd to stand alone - he was tired, but unable to find rest, and it was grating on his nerves and making him snappy. Mauja had no desire to snap on his herd, and so he'd ghosted away. Now, though... his ears flickered, and his tired, sooty head was raised and turned. Someone was coming, silently, not making much noise but still the broken forest whispered, heralding him. Exhausted and wary, Mauja's cold eyes watched the creature approach, as if born from the ashes themselves; a ridiculously long horn with a blue point led the way, followed by a gray body. For all Mauja knew, he could've rolled in the ashes. And for all he cared, he was welcome to it, and the King wished him a handful of embers to singe his coat with, too. Go away. I don't want to talk to you.

But of course, he could not say such a thing, nor could he melt into the charred remains of his forest and let the interloper be. The FrostHeart closed his eyes and gathered his strength and his tolerance, rolling up himself in a blanket of cold, snowy thoughts. A thin layer of frost clung stubbornly to the smooth length of his horn, but upon his hooves, buried in still-warm ashes, it had given up - for now. It would come back and reclaim the world, a sheet of ice and a blanket of snow. "Come Frostfall..." he half-sang brokenly, before giving his head a shake. Then, Mauja leaned away from his support and hoofed his way over to where the stranger was walking. With a tired grace he planted himself across his path, watching him with level red-rimmed eyes. The smoke had hung thick for a long time, and it still irritated his lungs to breathe and his eyes to see. "State your name and business here in the Edge," he asked in a ragged voice - but something in his eyes had sharpened, grown hard and clear and vigilant. Mauja might be tired, but he was strong enough to hold himself together, at least for a little longer. He wasn't going to stumble around in front of a stranger stallion, though he certainly felt like insulting his god-blasted timing. But oh well; the largest part of being a King was composed out of 'mask your own emotions', and it was something Mauja had learned a long time ago.

[ uhm this sucked. :c ]
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Kou Posts: 93
Aurora Basin Mare
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.0 :: 4
ali
#3
[Image: koutable.png]
Kou
Ashes. Char. Acrid smoke. It was all that remained of the once beautiful forest of the Edge. The bitter smell clung to her and even when she was no longer in the Edge she could still smell it. Bitter resentment burned hot in her heart. Resentment for the Sun God, resentment for those equines who traipsed in acting as if they owned the edge. The mare who was usually peacefully calm had wanted nothing more than to run her horn through them right then and there.

As the mare moved through the forest her cloven hooves kicked up clouds of ash. The grey ash clung to her white coat, coloring her a dull grey. As she slipped passed the charred trees the blackness of them rubbed off on her, painting her ungracefully. Kou stopped and sighed heavily, her gaze falling to the ash covered ground. Parts of it still smoldered and threatened to leap into flames once again. They could not handle another fire. Another fire would end them.

She closed her eyes and stood there in silence, but the silence was not long lived. The whisper of hooves in the ash and shushed voices drifted her way. Ears twitched, eyes opened, and head raised then turned in the direction it came from. Kou began to move through the burned forest again and eventually came upon her king and another unknown stallion. His body language alone was sign enough that he did not care for any newcomers at the moment and she could not blame him. She was not in the mood for them herself.

Kou stepped onto the scene, making herself visible to her king and the newcomer. Her petite body was tense. Unicorn or not she did not trust someone that would sneak into her home the way he had. The way those equines had when the Sun God had burned their forest down. Her head lowered as she angled her horn at the dark stallion.


colourize-stock @ deviantart | prints-of-stock @ deviantart | edlo @ deviantart

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#4
The grass started to die first.

The audacious, reaper poison festered from his monstrous body like a heathen’s macabre dance, grasping, clawing, ensnaring with intangible threads of decadent tyranny. Insurgency lacquered amongst cruelty, holding fast to the whimpering, withering strings of greenery, choking, suffocating, and smothering life from the tips of waving pinnacles to the hidden, furtive roots. With indignant shudders, they shriveled, once verdant, gallant figures, one of the few remaining survivors of machinated mayhem, then fell to the earth, black, lifeless, dead. One by one, they plummeted in a pattern, warped and deluded, seething along his Laodicean body. Hooves did not move, but their firm touch, the feral caress of a demon’s smoldering brush, scathing recoil and malignant rancor, slithered and coiled from his apathetic oeuvre; death humming its iniquitous requiem. Pervading his presence were only remnants of creation, naught could defend against his uncontrolled potency, the puissant edge to his licentious sword. By existing, he twisted mayhem, forged bedlam, and distorted chaos. Each mere breath tore another life asunder, savagely, brutally, a nefarious contract wild, ruthless, and unruly. A recalcitrant order from Tartarean guile, damned from birth to end, Mephisopheles’s favored toy. The calamitous whisper, the silent, searing siege. From the loss of life came the demise, decay, of amiability – left in place from the scarred remains of heartfelt wishes and dreams were remorseless strands, the poise of daggers and composure of insouciance. Humanity and morality were spent in the final hours of innocence, blemished, mottled, to the edges of turmoil, when his wrath entangled into flesh, venomous rapture in the wicked, Stygian reverie. This land seemed much the same: limbs robbed of existence, bent to the flames, driven to ash. He could be broken, isolated, and forlorn here, amongst the ember cobwebs and the inky shadows, dangerously stirring, lost, amongst the mist of destruction.

From these cinders came alight another creature, colder than the embers, seemingly displeased by Deimos’s venture – not the first, nor the last. His own chilling eyes watched, expression flat and unaffected, as the opposing stag advanced, a level of irritation mottled along his features. The leader, the dominion and authority, carved with worn sentiments, a bearing of ragged days – perhaps when the sun plotted devastation upon his castle. Statuesque, a grave image of perilous treachery, insurgent brutality wrapped in the sculpture of hostile ferocity, the slate brute listened to the demands, and bore his answer after stifling, startling brevity of his silence lapsed for several moments, calculating. In its place was the same molten fortitude of intimidation, scorching malice in the temptation of aloof brutality, an inscrutable clash of clandestine danger and fierce mutiny. His stiff composition awakened again in the severe grate of his voice, so frequently untouched in the hushed scythe of his dominance. Simplistic, blunt, concise in the harsh, minatory air. ”Deimos, son of Ignatius. A home.” The appearance of another caused him to turn his head, slowly, a series of machinated motions so rigidly controlled – spying upon the nimble, lithe contortion of feminine wiles and restlessness. Even her body betrayed her sentiments, already lowering her head, posturing her horn towards him as if eager to annihilate his diabolical, depraved entity. If he were a lesser being, he would have chuckled. Instead, he ignored her altogether, a brazen, pulsing indifference to her entrance.




Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#5
Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign

Tired, weary, but he refused to break beneath the weight of it - instead, he pulled upon his reserves, and in front of the audience he regained more and more grace with each passing second. His haphazard posture refined itself as he stood more firmly, neck arched, his body speaking of quiet pride despite being mired in ashes upon a dry, barren plain, a ghost in his own charred forest. Mauja refused to break, neither under the weight of the sun nor under the weight of burden; exhaustion. His cool eyes glittered softly, drifting off from the monochrome stranger and onto Kou. She was as worn as he, he could read it in the lines of her familiar body and see it in the way she moved, the planes of her face, the tip of her horn pointing towards the stoic beast. He felt much like doing the same and running him off, and then leaping off the Edge into the arms of oblivion, but it solved nothing. "Kou," he said, gently chiding her as a small, tired smile played upon his face. There was warmth in his voice, but an undercurrent of authority as well. "It does not do to threaten strangers." Especially not those of our blood.

That this Deimos, son of Ignatius, was a unicorn was beyond questioning. His horn was the longest Mauja had ever seen, and he wondered if his neck was thicker and stronger than most to balance such a weight. The tip of it was cobalt, matched by his eyes, but there was something about him - something reckless, wild, dark, it seemed to lurk in his eyes and in the depths of his voice, as if he didn't bother hiding it. Who are you? Was he a creature of evil, to pull the wings off flies and the horns off unicorns, or was he compassionate towards his own? Could he pull the weight, serve under another, become a valuable resource, or would he become a threat? Being stoic wasn't a defining feature of trouble - Ulrik was the proof of that. Though the engineer was a stallion of blunt honesty and little social skills, he was content to serve as long as Mauja didn't stray from their path. And when the King did err, he was alerted to it, and all was well. No ruler had ever been perfect, and he knew that mistakes would come at more times in his life. It was only natural.

"What skills would you bring to your would-be home, Deimos, son of Ignatius?" he asked, not yet hinting at whether or not he would be inclined to accept the dusky stallion into their ranks. The chance that he wouldn't was very slim, because Mauja hoarded unicorns, be they racist or not. His herd was diverse in that sense, but they were still content to follow him. Some knew of the Plague, some knew not of it, and that was the way it should be. Those who would oppose it were kept in the dark, and if they cried when the day of reckoning came, their voices would fall upon deaf ears. The unicorns would rise, and sweep the world clean - dreams nourished him in this time of despair, and the frosty stallion watched the gray one. Who are you? he wondered again, gray-striped tail slapping nonchalantly against his hocks.
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Kou Posts: 93
Aurora Basin Mare
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.0 :: 4
ali
#6
[Image: koutable.png]
Kou
"Kou."

An ear flickered in the direction of her king as he spoke her name. There was warmth there, but still she could feel and hear the authority in his voice as he told her, in essence, to lower her horn. She didn't want to. Already there were hornless traipsing through their home and now an unknown unicorn. How many of them pretended to serve the moon but really served the sun, she wondered. Distrust nestled in her heart and became a very real thing.

Why? Why should she not threaten someone that would sneak around their burned forest as this one had? Why shouldn't she show suspicion of someone sneaking around like this stallion was? He was there for a reason and whatever his motive was, she didn't trust it.

Gradually Kou lifted her head so that her horn was no longer pointed at the beast's chest. The small mare moved to stand near the larger, muscular body of her king and watched the intruder, her distrust of him shining bright in her eyes. She wished d'Artagnan was there with them, or even Korra. Another horn would do them good, should Deimos, Son of Ignatius, decide to launch an attack on them, stupid as it would be.

As Mauja questioned Deimos, Kou stood in silence watching him. Every blink of his eye, tilt of his head, flick of his tail. She was looking for deceit in him, not knowing if she would prefer that he be a liar or truthful. Her tail slapped against her legs as she continued to watch in silence, waiting for Deimos' answer. Judging him.


colourize-stock @ deviantart | prints-of-stock @ deviantart | edlo @ deviantart

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#7
A bitter, cold sword is among the callous distortions of bedlam and anarchy, a sweeping vice pardoned by the glacial, frigid essence of rancorous beasts, so besotted in the follies of corruption, calamity and catastrophe. Their touch is wicked and demoralizing, consumed by the fiendish, coarse acrimony settling in their cooled veins, like the swiftest brush of death laden upon one’s warm body, the sharpest kiss, piercing, penetrating, stealing the edge of flesh with keen passion and delusions. Protagonists of the brazen, bold and despaired; immorally sacrificing emotions for the scathing tip of a hissing cutlass, winding and waning, a heathen’s indifferent caress – they embrace with steel, repel with ambivalence. Rebelling affection for the dance of malevolence, artfully savage and callously cruel, they are no more than a weapon, a blackguard, a shield and scythe, blending imperfection with blinding dedication, the seething bounty of all they perceive and control, dominance in the suave entropies of unholy minds. Created to distort and warp, destroying virtue, condemning purity, bound to obscure the pliant flesh of a beloved benediction, scarred into stiff arbitration and molded amongst a canvas of ethereal casualties. So rigidly sculpted in the form of menacing beauty, a malice worn into decadent, elegiac forms, behemoths of merciless, ruthless fatality with the face of Hell’s last angels. Swarthy muscles and a serpent’s tongue, salaciously brandishing the rich palisades with deep tenors and dark desires, reshaping contorting dreams into brutal realities with enigmatic affliction and brutal persuasion. A maelstrom for the wicked, a savior for the licentious, bleeding revolution and breathing insurrection, humming devilish croons amongst the haughty baritones of fallen opposition. Unyielding furor and fervor, tightly wound in the Stygian waves of turmoil’s thickest threads, unleashed on the masses of deceived and beguiled, winding their fatal song of eradication. With one shove, they destroy empires, with one plunge, they shatter palaces, with one smirk, they fell the wakes of mortals, crush, demolish and ruin.

And in their hedonistic creation, they lose all humanity.


Eternally young and everlastingly heinous, the seditious brute stood, still composed, still nonchalant through their weary glances and distrustful stares. Devouring morality, consuming rectitude, he was not made of soft, malleable strings, but diabolical, twilight webbed strands, twisted into the fine, scrupulous, nocturne silk, avarice and abhorrence dipped in sinister barbs. Cold, carved, marble statue of vile depravity was inspired to chuckle, again, in so short a timeframe – the queries poised to him were laughter-worthy, with the torn irony of their flagrant ignorance. What skills would you bring to your would-be home? Were they so obsessed with his threatening prowess that they forgot witnessing other portions of his existence? His chilling eyes narrowed slightly; a twist to his masculine lips may have kindled a smirk, but the notion quickly disappeared. Instead, the macabre tenor of his speech ignited, flat, deep, emotionless in the licentious shade. “You cannot see it?” Deimos, this treacherous son of unicorns and heathens, lowered his massive head, indicative, teaching. There, within what had once been blades of twinkling, vivacious grass, the viral venom of his devil caress destroyed, ravaged, ruined. From the edges of his hooves: a choking, suffocating bane extinguished lives in minute, savage frames, falling in perilous, silent screams. A circle of death reigned from his still figure, verdant turned to dwindling, perished brown or a thick, inert black, curled, withered, decayed by the sumptuous, decadence of his feral, uncontrolled demeanor. He raised his cranium once more, poised his dark stare to each, stag and mare, allowing the raw fatality of his voice to strike again. “Everything I touch dies.”




Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#8
Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign

To his relief, Kou obeyed and pointed her horn in a less suspicious direction. It wasn't that he himself was naive and trusted just about anyone who happened to have a horn, just that, trespassing or not, they had no reason to decimate their own numbers. In fact, the pale King trusted very few - or, more like it, none at all. It was both a strength and a weakness, partly a comfort in knowing that he was invulnerable, and a weakness in that he stood alone. Sooner or later he hoped someone would earn his trust, but for now, he was a schemer who stood alone, not actively distrusting but never quite daring to lay all of his faith in someone. And so, he was not overly concerned with a brazen beast traipsing into his forest. If he wished to live here, he would learn to obey and respect, or be taught the lesson with violence. Mauja was no stranger to it, but preferred to rule with his mind - now, though, the brazen beast laughed, a sound that was quite unpleasant and dry. It was as if his entire presence stood there and whispered I am better than you which, Mauja thought, he most certainly was not. Compassion is an important skill, though he himself enjoyed subtly mocking others, so who was he to preach?

“You cannot see it?” he asked, and Mauja merely raised a cold 'brow at him. Deimos dipped his horn to indicate the ground, which hadn't exactly been an example of a flourishing meadow to start with, and proclaimed that everything he touched died. Everything? he wanted to ask, an interested glint in his eyes surfacing despite his desire to conceal it, wanted to assess the limits of the power - ask, even horses? It could be most useful, indeed... Still, he hadn't really asked the question with the intention of finding out if he was magic or not. That wasn't as important to him as racism and fighting skill, or a flair for politics and spying. "It was hardly alive to begin with," he said with an absentminded wave of his horn. "But it seems a little more dead than before you came here, I'll give you that, myrkurdýr." And he smiled, his own soft, wry little smile, as if to say don't be upset, this is just who I am. Mauja tilted his head, soot-stained forelock sliding off his forehead.

"It sure seems useful, but surely it's not the only thing which makes you desirable, hm? Do you know how to fight, are you loyal to the-" This time, the wave of his horn was much more deliberate, the motion small but precise. "- cause?" His eyes glittered in his worn face, the few burns mottling his dirty hide a testament of their recent hardships, but with each passing second he suppressed the exhaustion and became more and more of his usual self, albeit a tad filthier. Mauja forced down the desire to make a remark on Deimos' charming personality, and instead kept his eyes trained on his face, anticipating his reaction, hoping for recognition; hoping for another who believed in their purity, their dominance. That was the only kind of arrogance Mauja approved of, and one he wished this one held; he might be a bit awkward, and stank of sinister intentions and menace, but he could definitely be valuable... Unless Mauja's characteristic dismissal of his power pissed him off. But, oh well, that'd be his loss.
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#9
He felt the contempt, the searing, stinging gesture of underestimation. Vicious in its cruel, crude, Machiavellian design, meant to temper, kindle, and ignite arrogant flesh. In his childhood, he would have burned and simmered, scathed and recoiled, harkened to bestial shades of glory and rendered this political slate void – a reckless, brazen youth coiled in rancorous, discordant indiscretions. He would have condemned, damned, screamed in foolish, audacious bravado; to be scorned, to be demoralized, to be diminished and miscalculated, the fault would have been great, a slander, a bruise upon his esteem. But in age, experience, and isolation, he had grown cold. When one has nothing to care for, nothing to fight for, nothing to live and breathe for, the embers died. One by one, they flickered out, lost in the abyss of emotional tribulation, lost in the desolate, forsaken aptitudes of harmony. Fire had slowly turned to ice. The chilling resilience of his barbed contortions was now an irrepressible substance, lacquered tightly to the enamel of his argent coat, his rogue countenance, the archaic, feral breath of his being. In this nefarious, noxious, brooding turmoil, he would remain the statue, the baleful, malignant course of infernal grandeur. He knew of his own prowess, the savage, predatory ferocity sibilating in his veins, a venomous hiss, a toxic plunge, a radiant competence of menace. He wouldn’t be wounded by a phrased strike, a dismissive sneer. If this leader, another individual made from frigid glaciers, did not wish to use his powers, then so be it. He could render his services elsewhere. Deimos remained motionless, a hardened, solid beast of muscle and composure, nonchalance, apathy, insouciance caressing the sinister prominence of his stoic features. Words slipped beyond him, and where others would crawl for the mercy of their monarch’s heart, he stood.

”I can fight.” His voice slipped out, rough and crackled, frayed from the deepened tenors of long silence. But then the opposing brute continued, and sliding from his tongue was a familiar wind, a dangerous predilection that stirred pieces of Deimo’s blood – oh, he could remember the days of anarchy, relish, pool, seethe in a laced, distorted contempt. There was the slip of his father’s voice urging abhorrence for those not of his kind, the heat of the Tides’s bane, the rampant discretions, the longing abominations, the yearning of annihilation. A slight reaction appeared on his features, carefully poised for a tender, breath of a moment, but his brows lifted, the piercing, ruthless stare incited, the touch of a smirk emerging across his masculine lips. A devil’s chord chimed in the mottled course of this hostile land: he wanted a piece of it, a dry, toxic taste of the succulent conflict, the clashing, grating succulence of disaster, mayhem, bedlam. The scintillating loathing, the reeling acrimony, the rancorous belligerence, a desire for bloodshed; it was all he had left in the forsaken strides of his untouchable essence. He allowed his vocals to ignite again, a smooth, sardonic ripple this time, a bending notion of knowledge he wanted to hear. ”It depends on the purpose.”





Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#10
Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign

He wondered if the stallion had ever known love, compassion, affection; had he ever had parents who doted upon him, who whispered sweet nonsense in his ears and made him feel warm, safe? Had he ever had friends he knew he could rely upon no matter what, felt that trust? Had he ever known mares or stallions which made his heart skip a beat upon seeing them, which spread the most curious of sensations through the body? He remained nothing but a cold statue in front of Mauja, as if not knowing how to express anything - it was intriguing and disturbing all at once, and he allowed his cold eyes to narrow a fraction. Was his heart too long gone, too deeply encased in stone and dirty gray ice, or could Mauja and his herd teach him how to feel, how to laugh mirthfully, how to smile? Could they teach him what it was to be loved? It was a challenge, something to wonder about, something to observe, and somewhere deep in his heart he felt his fatherly side stir; no unicorn should go unloved. No unicorn should live and not know the closeness of their kin. Perhaps the greatest question was - would Deimos accept the gift of being taught these things?

”I can fight,” he said, as if remarking upon the weather or something of even lesser meaning. Mauja fought down the sudden and irrational urge to strangle him out of sheer frustration. Could nothing bring a reaction from this creature? Well, a reaction larger then a twitch of his fine gray hairs... Something came into his eyes and the King fixated his own gaze upon it, drinking in what he saw, the nearly mocking voice that slipped out again. The purpose? Could there be more than one? He resisted the desire to snort and say something flippant. Myrkurdýr was an appropriate nickname for him indeed, if the glint in his eyes was the predatory hunger he assumed it was.

"Dominance," he said in his smooth, cool voice, eying the gray creature as he casually walked up to him, wanting to try something out. Easily he slid past the blue tip of Deimos' long horn, irrationally feeling safer when it would be harder to stab him; the creature felt unpredictable, and he had no desire to end the day with a horn lodged in his flesh. It was bad enough with the burns.

Even if he hadn't believed the stranger when he said everything died, he would've done it now; he could feel it when he was this close, as if something was draining him, sucking out his spirit through his flesh and drying up his blood... It was unpleasant, vague still, but an unmistakable threat. This was a walking killing machine. How had he come to be? Had he killed his mother? With an almost tender look on his face Mauja reached out his pale muzzle and ever so softly blew hot air onto Deimos' shoulder before touching it.

It sent a jolt of death through him, the same sensation that was in the air around Deimos but strengthened at least tenfold; he snapped his head back, a look of disturbed wonder in his eyes, and unwilling to risk his life further when he already was worn out, he calmly backed out until the air felt less oppressing. There he blinked, and realized he'd come to stand beside Kou. He gave the mare's neck an affectionate nudge before looking back to Deimos. "Quite an ability indeed," he murmured. It had shaken him, but he refused to admit it, refused to let it show. "Deimos, son of Ignatius. If you would lend your skills to defend the Edge and our race, I will be more than happy to let you call this home."

( I hope you don't mind what he did! :o )
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#11
When he was younger, a babe in the laurels, he had known affection, compassion, empathy, and tenderness. The caress of his mother’s warm maw, the devotion of his father, the kind, watching eyes of the herd; he’d grown with the promise of these fine things fostering his development. Perhaps he could have been kind, beneficent, loving, nurturing – a steadfast, valiant warrior poet, an intrepid, charming ambassador – but any of these vapid, sanguine dreams were demolished, ruined, upon his first birthday. Fate had not given him divine morality, drenching him in the sinister sinew of Mephistophelean decadence. The hopes were removed, dashed, and eventually devoured, consumed by the aching distortion of reaper potency. Little by little, his pernicious flesh destroyed flagrant benedictions, seeds withered, blooms grayed, then plains of verdant grass, creatures in copses of corpses; his body became a yearning, caressing fiber of death. Does one continue to love when everything they touch, embrace, stroke turns to ash? Does one continue to cherish when everything they care for could decay, shrivel, atrophy at their closeness? Does one continue to instill goodwill when their hand slaughters everything they come to revere? Does one continue to stay near when they steal the breath of those within reach? And so, he hardened, became a sculpture of cutlasses and rapiers, of audacity and insolence, of isolation and despair. Emotion was placed elsewhere, deep in the recesses of his frozen heart, where he couldn’t feel, where he couldn’t sense, where he would remain rooted to the fixtures of desolation and malevolence, the brooding weapon everyone could live without. The rotting, decaying argent prince, the dark, Stygian scion, waiting to be removed from the earth while he plunged his scythe into its beating doldrums. And from a flame, a nation helpless. Black, black heart. One cannot hurt when they are encased in nothingness.

He watched, silent, steady, and resolute, as the leader advanced. Sure, confident steps, the markings of a composed monarch, one who could reign with few worries. But he was getting too close, not a threat upon Deimos’s marble canvas, but upon his own fixture, this spotted sovereign. He crept into the doom of acerbic air, in the contorting, fiendish poison, the macabre twist of puissant venom, and the gray stallion’s entire body stiffened. Rigid, his nape snaked upwards to an imposing, daunting countenance, undulating muscles bunched and coiled, rippling with formidable, intimidating measures, one last threat before reality punctured and lanced the living, before the crawling dusk proved too wild, and the bestial clamor of the Grim Reaper swindled with acerbic ease. But the opposing stag continued, bringing himself nearer, and Deimos was struck by the thought that he had no desire to kill this beast, this strange stag who dared to come where no one had crossed in years, but the cruel, malicious entities of his presence could still stroke the fires of demise and damnation. He took a meticulous step backwards, not hesitant, but maintaining a swift, calculating air, a machination to keep the other creature amongst the living. Then the King blew upon his shoulder, a small, soft touch, and the sweltering convolution of bane and toxins pulsed, pervading the air, promising the same cold, chilling effusion of its creator: death, singing a listless requiem. Seconds thereafter, he was gone – and the stoic creation was left to softly release the breath he’d been holding. His nonchalant features rekindled, his wide stare fell back to its cool, aloof gaze, and his frame relaxed, no longer so firmly rigid. Vocals were strangled again though, sad, coarse, rough things that had been worked far beyond their limits, and could posture only a stiff response. ”I will.” A pause, then again, they were briefly reinstated. "What shall I call you?"






Kou Posts: 93
Aurora Basin Mare
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.0 :: 4
ali
#12
[Image: koutable.png]
Kou
Kou had stood by quietly, watching the strange stallion and listening to the little bit that he had said. There was something about him, his very presence made her skin crawl. She felt like she couldn't take a deep enough breath, but after a few minutes she had chalked it up smoke she had breathed in when the forest was burning. It made her wonder how many others were still suffering from it. Then she thought of d'Artagnan. Would he be working on healing right now? If he was then she shouldn't be standing with Mauja while he conducted business. She should be with her doctor, watching over him to make sure he didn't overexert himself.

The mare sighed and began to turn, having every intention on going to find her doctor, but she stopped when Deimos finally said what his magic was. She looked at him, her head tilting slightly. Much to her horror Mauja moved to touch him and the little mare panicked. "No!" Kou tried to move as quickly as she could to push Mauja away from Deimos. Was he crazy? The other unicorn's magic was killing anything he touched, so she assumed touching him would mean death as well, and he was going to touch him.

"Are you crazy?" The little mare huffed in annoyance. "He says a touch could kill and you touch him?! Where would that leave us if you died because of it?" Kou stepped back even as Mauja bumped his muzzle against her neck. They had already lost their forest and now it was seeming like Mauja had lost his mind in the wake of it. Kou huffed once before before turning and walking away to finally go find d'Artagnan.

colourize-stock @ deviantart | prints-of-stock @ deviantart | edlo @ deviantart
Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#13
Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign

I'm still alive.

It had been an interesting thing to watch Deimos (perhaps it would've been interesting to watch Kou too; he'd heard her shout, alright). It seemed that Mauja's unanticipated advance had slammed some sort of reaction into his head - he'd even tried to back away, as if afraid to hurt him inadvertently. Did there reside a heart in his blackened chest after all? Had he cared, or simply not wanted to deal with the misfortune of having killed a monarch? He mused on it silently, Kou bumping angrily against him and backing off. His pale head swung around to regard the cremello mare kindly, warmly, knowing that he deserved the scolding. He guessed he was crazy, at least somewhat. "I guess I'm insane," he muttered, thinking about Prometheus disfigured form. "And I guess it'd leave you with a new leader or an urgent quest to revive me - I'd not deserve it, though." He said it with the barest hint of a smile, but she seemed pissed enough to not linger. She went off into the forest while Deimos gave his answer, but silently the King cursed himself for a fool. It was genuine concern that had spurred Kou's words, and he had replied with his usual nonchalance, as if it didn't bother him at all. It had been a gamble, but it had paid off; what if it hadn't? What if he'd died? He remembered the uncanny sensation of having life sucked out of him. A touch, would a single touch had been enough? He was fairly certain it required at least longer than the brevity of their contact.

I am a fool. But he wasn't fool enough to blame this misstep on his exhaustion. He had only himself to blame. "I'm sorry, Kou," he murmured, wishing he could shout it after her, but she was gone already; where to? To grumble about her idiot King? With a flash of a smile he recalled the anxiety she and the Doctor had had for each other when the Sun had come. Perhaps she had gone to find d'Artagnan.

His raven-winged head came back around to look upon Deimos, the charcoal beast of death. How could such power exist in a creature, without killing him? Eyes narrowed a fraction. He didn't need someone killing off the rest of the sparse vegetation. After a moment he said, "Mauja,", in response to the beast's question. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to run off to be on his own, and sleep, deeply, until the world was right again. Exhaustion overwhelmed him again and threatened to cause his mind to crumble. He gave the newcomer a tired smile. "Try to not kill all of the forest, hm? Just call if you need me for something, I'm usually not far. Y'know, you're a charming fellow, why don't you go find someone from the herd to befriend?" Just don't kill them. While darkness shrouded this creature and claimed him its child, he'd sensed no real evil when he'd pushed into his space - just that confused desire not to kill. He trusted whatever seed of kindness that remained in his ashen body to not leave the corpse of a family member for the King to find in the morning. With those words, however, he gave the stallion a nod and began to drift off into the forest. He needed to close his eyes and sleep until the life he'd given Deimos had been returned to him.

( woah, I didn't see tired Mauja coming xD sorry to just end it so abruptly but chah, welcome to the herd? ^^; Mau out. <3 )
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here


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