the Rift


Be gone. [Deimos]

Mirage the DragonHeart Posts: 414
Deceased atk: 5.5 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Mare :: Equine :: 15.3 :: Eighteen HP: 68.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Akaith :: Royal Golden Dragon :: Fire Breath Whit
#1

So much had happened.

Her capture, the broken bond, her herd's capture of the Basin's General, the attempts on her friend's lives because of it, her release, Solstice's escape, Xanthos' escape… it was a whirlwind of happenings, all chaotically congesting into a cesspool of disorienting confusion, tumultuous perplexity settling into her mind and giving the WeyrLeader a monumental headache. Golden eyes clicked shut behind charred lids, the mare stood as just that; a dark, shadowy smudge against the landscape of spring forests, letting the trillions of thoughts roll through her head. Saline air pressed against her, lifting the silken threads that grew along the crest of her curved nape. There was much to be done.

The fleck of gold that flew above her chirruped a sound, it was not a pleased sound, for the she knew what was to come. The dragon did not want to venture near death any more than she had to; but the Leader did not want death on her doorstep any more. Decay and rot haunted his footsteps, shadows squirmed and writhed around him. He was the reaper, he lived while others perished, the energy drawn to him was stolen, taken from the cells of another and presented with the bravado of a gift. The brother to the leader spoke of this horned beast's powers in the invasion, he spoke of the brush he had experienced with death itself. Mirage had looked upon her beloved siblings then, and believed them, and she would heed their warnings now.

Though the magic that marked him was restrained by the grips of her sister's talented companion, it was an imperfect hold, and as she neared the area that was marked a prison cell - signs, of the battle fought between guard and prisoner, and further lifelessness in the very atmosphere - it took a grim determination not to give in to the dizziness that pulled at her, the weariness of the past weeks that resurfaced in the presence of this fiend. Indifference shone upon her face, as she acknowledged the guards, holding their gaze in silent approval and gratitude, before the steely, stony façade returned with a swift efficiency. The grey unicorn was there, and upon looking at him, she felt another wave of something unsettling - nausea? Fatigue? Exhaustion? Extinction? - wash over her.

The Basin had proved their point, they were a force to be reckoned with - but Mirage had never doubted that fact. Why else would she had so carefully counted her allies, who had fought alongside her during her invasion, who continued to attempt to aid her even when she had been captive? Yes, Mirage knew of the unicorn's prowess, she was not foolish enough to grow complacent; yet, neither should they. Had they not proved themselves in these games of warfare too? Had they not won their right to call the World's Edge their home? Had they not stolen one of their own back, and had allies steal from the Basin in retaliation, and blocked countless other attempts on their ranks besides?

"Deimos." Dry, cracked tones spoke, the throat of the leader suddenly parched, though her resolve to speak did not die with the failings of her voicebox. A pause in her speech, to wet her tongue, was all the mare showed of the effects this proximity did to her. "A truce, until Orangemoon, with the Aurora Basin herd, in exchange for your freedom." The leader was not foolish enough to expect a truce to last forever; nor did she expect the foul, loathsome cretins to keep it at all. But what she spoke was not a request, more of a statement, a command, a sentiment of something undeniable. She wanted him gone from here, needed him gone from here - but she had to at least attempt to bargain for the safety of her herd first.

[ For Deimos, and Edge members. ]

larfsalot.deviantart.com


Lace the Silverthorn Posts: 459
Deceased atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 14 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE
Fajira :: Plain White Dragon :: Fire Breath Chan
#2

LACE</style>
Time Flies - Time Dies
Truth like a blazing Fire
</style>


Death. Darkness. It was as though the very warmth was stolen from the air the closer they came to the well guarded prisoner; an echo of it remained within him still, a reminder of the battle he had just barely escaped from with the life intact. Somehow the reaper had been kept within the borders however, and for that the stallion felt a grim pride. He hadn't succumbed to fear, had kept his pride and done what was necessary - more than he was entitled to do. No one could look down on him for this, not even himself.

So these were the effects of truly dark magic. An unusually stern expression lingered over the features of the gray steed as he looked around the former battlefield, following one step behind Mirage. Dead trees, dry earth, moss turned gray and lifeless - such was the curse of the reaper, who's name he was loath to take into his mouth. By dishonoring the agreement between the Edge and the Basin by trying to escape, and by the very nature of his magic the general had made an enemy in Lace. The Glazier wished to see him gone just as much as everyone else, but he agreed with the WeyrLeader that they couldn't just set him free. Solstice was back home and that was great, more than great, but that was not enough. For holding a captive for no apparent reason and with no demands on ransom, for breaking an agreement and for disagreeing with the rightful claim on the land of Worlds Edge that had been won through battle, a statement had to be made. The Qian would tolerate much, but not an attempt at its members. They disagreed with liars, oath-breakers and racists, and now was a time to set down a firm hoof and state an example.

Truce for freedom. It was a cheap price, but as the grulla came to a halt side by side with the DragonHeart and looked at the stone gray unicorn, he had to wonder if even that simple a request would be upheld. The unicorns of Aurora Basin was known for being extremists, unlikely to negotiate; they certainly hadn't been willing before the invasion.

Masking his own tiredness behind a steely expression, the silver-coated craftsman spared the briefest of glances towards the shadow mare next to him as she spoke, worried about the weary tone of her voice; without changing expression he shifted his weight and leaned over, for the briefest moment offering a brush of his scarred shoulder against hers. A small, pointless gesture, offering her all the support he had to give; she wasn't alone.



CREDITS: Schwartze | venomxbaby | 116802
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♦ Permission granted to use magic and violence on Lace and Fajira
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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
#3
Tranquil, idle fury lapped and layered his bones, lacquered, corroded the daunting turbulence of his fiendish, infernal mind. He waited, lost and forlorn in the arts of his own desolation, silent but still a vivid presence against a landscape he once guarded, and now terrorized, with the brutality of his haunting, alluring travesties. He stood amongst destruction, claimed it as his doing, his actions, his resolutions, without a single word, the harbinger of demise, the eternal end, the quietus in the hushed absolution of decay. He’d wrought and sown, and naught had come of it, so he lingered in the melancholy of not defeat, but a draw, a tie, that left him to dwindle in the arms of the Edge again, ensnared in their coils, entangled in their chains with wounds and thoughts to occupy his time, space and entity. He’d tasted freedom, briefly, and suddenly the rancorous convictions of something he’d always possessed fueled and drove his muted core over and over again. Like an avaricious devil he’d clutched and grasped, ripped and clawed, to no triumph, to no victory. What more could be done – he’d attempted escape, he’d challenged and found a worthy adversary, and still he was locked in this oubliette. Patience, composure, would have to be incensed again, and with injuries that bound the black heart to an aching, withering decay of burnt flesh and acrid sentiments, cloistered, nettled, trapped, he was all the more ushered to persist in the delusions of soundlessness, listless and languid.

He offered nothing to those present but the sinister scope of his stare, loathsome, trenchant, coated in contempt, a steady, insouciant stance laced, carved, sculpted into his frame. He wouldn’t admit his wounds scorched and seared, he wouldn’t tell the world of his disappointment, he wouldn’t express or exude anything but the terror, the horror, of his behemoth grace. Deimos glanced at the draconic equine, the leader now thriving back in her homeland, ignoring the Glazier altogether, and refused to hint at a single sentiment driven into his stature – the complexities of his features were merely endowed with the snippets of his derision, callous, cool, apathetic and indifferent. When she spoke of her demands he could have laughed, because if anything had been proven within the last dwindling seasons, it had been the harsh, rapier brutality of mutual hatred passed between the two cadres. He was not a beast of politics or machinated designs of emissaries, the oeuvre of conquest eternally whispering the simmering caress of his presaged, augured opus; war would always come before peace. Ultimately, it was not his choice in the matter anyway, he did not lead the Basin – he led the harking militia, the drums of battle, the hostile tirades of vengeance. His voice managed to crawl from his throat, not yet used in the state of his capture, grating and dissonant, harsh and deep, as if longing to return into the wake of anarchy, resonating in the clarity of upheaval. ”It is not my decision.”


Mirage the DragonHeart Posts: 414
Deceased atk: 5.5 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Mare :: Equine :: 15.3 :: Eighteen HP: 68.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Akaith :: Royal Golden Dragon :: Fire Breath Whit
#4

Scorn, hatred, they were emotions of darkness, of deep, withering obscurity, causing blindness to actions that would otherwise seem logical. Turmoil ran rampart, stirring histories of chaotic times plagued by death and destruction, illogic became logic - it took all of the little shadow's concentration to hold onto herself, to not give in to the magic that drank off not only the energy of her bodice, but evidently the mental guards she had laid within her very cranium. Chronic fatigue tried to unleash the bountiful emotions roiling within her, tried to get her impassive façade to slip, to leak out over the edges of her resolve. No, she hardened herself inwardly further, and felt the faraway safety blanket of Akaith buffeting her resolve, strengthening it, allowing her to endure the torture of being in this demon's very presence.

He arrived then, her saviour, her support, her friend and ally, the guard that had bravely faced death's collector of souls, the reaper who would slit their throats with the scythe upon his brow given half the chance. Matching golden eyes beheld him, locked onto him, betraying only her undying devotion to showing him how grateful she was, how much she appreciated and loved that he would stand by her, and suffer the agony of this hellish boy's existence. Pools turned to view the demon then, ears standing ready to grab at any words he might allow to leak from his macabre lips, draped in tones of one who knew what it was to be captured and kept against his will. The words he spoke held truth - at least, a little bit of it. Mirage knew his position in the Basin, he held power there; he could sway the rest of them to agree to her terms, she was sure.

"Perhaps not yours alone, but I am sure you can influence those around you to your will." Dry, bland, matter-of-fact tones replied, as she was silently furious at the effort she needed to go to just to speak. The usual warm, rich voice of Mirage had faded, her accent even had diminished to become a whisper, and though she spoke with little inflection, there was more to the emptiness of her words than mere lack of emotion. But she continued on, stubborn, determined, tenaciously persevering to reach a conclusion at long last from these historical series of events. "Go, now. Take your leave, do not return." A fatalistic edge coated her words, as she granted the freedom of this prisoner, and watched with due care and concentration that he would, indeed, be gone.

[ Deimos is free <3 & Mirage is following him to the borders to make sure he leaves xD ]


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Ink Posts: 121
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 6 years
Blu
#5


I am present, of course. I follow Mirage like a shadow, although she herself is already one. Can a shadow cast a shadow?

Theories aside, I move through the mists like the wraith of my rank name. My steps are light, though wet, my body not made of flesh but born of my name. Ink stains the path as I walk, the black water no less delicious to drink in, though it smears and stains this canvas of the world. Are my footsteps beautiful art or just mistakes from a passing brush stroke? I suppose we all want our lives to be meaningful, our existences beautiful, but can dark stains accomplish that? I wonder if my very nature fates me to be no more than a mistake.

From the shade of the hooded forest I watch and listen to the banter of queens and vagabonds. I have come as much to drink in this knowledge (how can I inform anyone else if I am less informed afterall) as to protect Mirage. I am not sure what sort of bodyguard you could consider me aside from worthless. Even now I feel the abilities of death, as I have come to know him, breaking up my substance. My once artful outlines have blurred and sunken as I feel literally stretched thin, my consistency more watery than is normal and my color a paled thing compared to my naturally iridescent pitch. It worries me, a gnawing in my gut nothing but fear that sets my paws to flex in anxiety. I worry for Mirage too - would I be willing to jump in front of her and take the reaper's scythe if it came to that.

I'm not sure my loyalties run so deep, so I hope it does not come to that.
Though it makes me curious if you can kill ink.
I think inside I already know the answer is yes.

I do not breathe. I do not blink. I only exist.

Thankfully Lace, more brave than I, joins the encounter and I rest assured knowing that I may continue to exist, beautiful brushstroke or not.




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Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.


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