| Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6 |
| Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.0 hh :: 3 Years HP: 63.5 | Buff: ENDURE |
| redgod |
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IN SEARCH FOR THE GUIDELINES TO THE GATEWAYS OF SIN
Sophistication as cruelty and perfection as virulent truth
Any ounce of childish innocence and infant's pride had been stripped from his muscular figure. The thin physique of a yearling had been forcibly honed into a weapon, lithe and fit. Instead of bright, keen darkness bubbling with a wildness in his two colored eyes, the stallion held knowledge and the darkness had deepened into something far more devilish and cruel. In all ways he had changed, formed by a force only his father had been able to escape, and the thought brought a cruel sneer to his lips. Father.
Disgrace.
His blood line. The thought made him shudder.
On more than one occasion, he tried to find the equine in his blood, and he had flayed open his leg on the stone, wondering if he was drained, would only the unicorn remain? He had done nothing except weaken himself, and for that stupidity, he was beaten. Sure, flinch at the thought, gasp. He enjoyed it. Any scar on his body now was a testament to the fact that he had grown up, that he was ready.
What had urged his hooves on the long journey to his father's homeland, Dorngarrow, was an impish curiosity. He had found ash, fields or ash and his grandsire. Perhaps one day, he would be hailed as the most vile creature, just like he. Still, the sight of his orange and red eyes made him cringe, and he could not shake his visage from the back of his eyes when he closed them. He had asked his grandsire to make him great, and two years later, he returned to this pathetic, wretched land to make something out of the weakness.
Granted, there was a beacon of hope in this forsaken place, and his hooves carried him there. He had been once before in his childish idolization of the creature, Deimos. Varath had spoken to his grandsire about the life-eater, and he counselled that such a stallion would make a powerful ally. He was proud of have chosen the right model with which to mold himself after, but now he was grown. However, Deimos had not left, and therefore was still much more knowledgeable than he; Varath had humility when logic called for such an action.
With a cool respect for Psyche and her authority, Varath stopped at the crest of the long, narrow path, ignoring the sun bearing down on his dappled figure and into his sensitive, silver eye. He inhaled deeply and exhaled a deep, resonating call, intent on joining these lands. With a sword and power, he would turn this world to greatness, and he did not much care whose bodies fell in the process.
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Image Credits
Myrah
Ooc:// Hope you don't mind. If you do I can delete my post o.o//
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A sharp yawn cracked the face of the Mare's Visage, after so many days of travel she had worked out a few days of rest and relaxation from her not-so-busy schedule. Already she was finding herself getting used to the frigid temperatures, the permafrost, and even the sometimes hock deep snow. Wounds gained from the travel had already started to heal, though she found herself still sore as a well beaten equine.
Cloven hooves snapped and crackled beneath her as they hacked through the frozen ground, bordering her new home. Already she had explored the inside, finding a well suitable cavern to call her own, and take a shallow dip in the hot spring before munching on the grass that surrounded it. Now, she was bored.
At least when she was off on her own, she could travel any place she deemed fit, if she became bored with the scenery she could change it... but here... here she was pondering around and well stuck in a life she didn't quite understand. It had a name, yes that it did... it was called a Herd. Even after a few days within said herd, she didn't quite know what to do, and found herself rather tentative at trying to talk to other unicorns besides Voodoo. It wasn't that she was afraid of them, well sort of... but she didn't trust them, not yet anyhow. Just because they had horns on their heads didn't make them trustworthy.
Around she came, towards the pass that would bring her in, back to the springs to quell the ache already starting to travel up her legs and carry on deep into her shoulders. The walk was nice, it stretched her joints... but her heart wasn't really in it.
A sound up the well worn path brought her attention out of her head, and towards a grey stallion approaching. Almost immediately her body stiffened, ready to roll forward and attack. Myrah acted more on fight instincts than flight, perhaps it was just her stubborn nature or proud lineage, or just the fact that she wasn't exactly the fastest unicorn out there, what ever the case, she was poised for action. Friend or foe? Was he a part of the herd or a stranger?
Nares flared as she tried to drink in his scent, but alas the wind was not in her favor. Now it came down to two different options... Friendly introduction, or aggressive? For all she knew, he could be the lead of the herd, and introducing herself for the first time to the lead in an aggressive way could get her knocked down a couple of pegs... or boot her from the herd.
"May I ask who you are and where you hail from?" her voice came, half way between guarded and friendly. At least this way she could make a smooth recovery if she must. Yet it also made a clear point that she did not know him as part of the herd. Not that she knew many of the herd as it was. Regardless, if she let a stranger in without cause, she would look foolish and definitely lose points with whom ever the higher ups were.
"Myrah Speaks"
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
His movements were quiet, slithering strokes of heathen empires and demon monarchs, wicked, trenchant, silent. Knotted immorality, contorted apathy, primal violence in the sanctity of sin and iniquity, the devil lavished him with gifts, and he starved the souls of his bestial abyss with the vibrant sinew of malice and contempt, varnished in the glow of transgressions. Unattainable, unreachable, he stalked the fabric of wanton trespassers, caught invaders, tossed the sliding whims and virtues of their fanciful hearts, desires, into nothingness, scorned and scorched, seared and simmered, by the wake of his demonic desecration. Hallowed and hallowed by the infernal bliss of mordant entropy, swallowing the foolish, the inane, the inept, grinding and fueling the fervent friction of unholy, vehement violence. The touch, the taste, the rapture of its seditious bliss was an ensnaring, beguiling trade, molten and treacherous, brewed with all the bewitching temptations of a barbaric, savage upheaval. Tartarean guile enameled with iron intimidation, the fiend wallowed in the shade and shadow, grasped the darkness in a taut fist, wandered over valley and shoal, guarding, consuming, devouring until the trace of another caught his attention. It was familiar, but not overly so; he couldn’t put a name to the creature that lingered along their borders, that called for a sovereign. It piqued his interest, invoked his curiosity, incensed his inquiry, and since the day had not been bombarded by ignorant travelers, he chose to follow the smell mingling amongst the frigid air.
The travel did not take him long, over rancorous rime, slush and the dampening chill that spread throughout the Basin. His eyes, the severe slate of his stare, recognized that he was not the first to arrive, a femme not yet met or known. The weight of his gaze rested on her briefly (for at least she attempted to guard their borders), before turning to the colt-grown-stallion. The face was identifiable, he’d been amongst the gathered group of the scholar and some siren-esque mare, but time had rendered him older, no longer gangly, now scarred, having earned some credentials on his own. Still a youth, with promises to be fortified, glories to be rendered, specious benedictions to be yielded and gathered. Was this a chance to prove himself under the mass of their greatness, of their deceit, of their perilous, daunting heights? Deimos did not bother querying the lad over heraldry, the mare before him had already done so, and the hushed weight of his presence was likely enough to solidify the boy’s necessity for someone with power, precision, might and menace. The monster was mute again, but swiveled a listening ear, poised for persecution or deliverance.
| Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6 |
| Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.0 hh :: 3 Years HP: 63.5 | Buff: ENDURE |
| redgod |
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IN SEARCH FOR THE GUIDELINES TO THE GATEWAYS OF SIN
Sophistication as cruelty and perfection as virulent truth
Varath waited, half expecting Psyche to greet his call. When he was here last as only a small yearling, she had done so and introduced him to a filly who had seemed quietly beautiful - at least as he remembered. At the time, he had not been overly interested in girls or their habits, but now he had grown and changed. Much was left to learn, and the horizon was forever out of his grasp, but at least now he could make out the clouds in the distance.
Much had changed, it seemed, in his absence - not that he was any particular visionary when it came to remembering details, but those he recognized were hidden. Instead, a mare approached almost violent, perhaps hesitantly? As if she were unsure if attacking him or greeting him valiantly were the correct choices. The pride in him swelled, thinking that he would feel no remorse in gutting her to prove his newly honed prowess in battle, but that notion would be counter productive. Damn.
He watched her nostrils flare, her faltering behavior with a calm void of emotion, trying his best to emulate the unwavering confidence and darkness of Deimos, but he knew that he was different. Like the Crimson King, his grandsire, and even his sire, a burning passion, all consuming like fire, ran through his veins. The gray colt was not ice, he was flame. Wild. Barely controlled. And destructive.
The mare seemed to settle on a response, and Varath's silver and red eyes settled on her own icy blues, and he barely shifted the muscular weight of his body onto a hip, frost pluming from his breath in a white cloud. "My name is Varath, and I hail from a land far from here - a land of fire and blood," he murmured in his newly deepened voice. "I followed a gray here once, and I was intrigued by his society, but I left before Psyche allowed me official entrance," he explained, gaze pulled by the very sight he spoke of.
Would he be proud? Varath hated himself for how much he looked up to Deimos, but he could not help but feel drawn to the blue-eyed demon. The younger colt dipped his head in a respectful vow to the silent stallion, feeling his chest restrict in anticipation of validation or a curse. Carefully, he lifted his gaze once more, and he hoped that Deimos was able to see the maturity and darkness that had been nurtured and pruned so carefully. Would he desire the same ashen land as he? To rule all those who deserved to stand beneath their hooves? To wage war, shed blood and offer but a harsh laugh at the cries of subjugation and death?
The vision in his mind was clear, but he needed someone to share it with, someone to teach him, to guide him like the father he never had.
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Image Credits
Myrah
Ooc://Not sure if I got the emotions well enough there, still situating myself into her personality.//
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'Bloody Barbarian...' the tri toned dame deduced from the situation. Why was he standing there like he was the king of the world, when he owned nothing. Not the long frosted blades of grass that cut through the ice, nor the ground he stood upon. Stupidity was not in her nature, icey blues could see him sizing her up, deducting her strengths and pulling her weaknesses as if he could calculate her abilities all in one move. His motive as of yet was unclear, but his wild gaze told her that he was not one to be trusted. 'Not of this herd, best to leave him to the wolves... or knock him around a bit.' her cranium speculated in one toss of her elongated tail. After all, it would be quite delicious if she could knock him down a few, being beaten by a mare would surely wound his foolish pride! Even so a small part of her quivered, ached from the first time she had encountered a stallion and nearly lost her life. A part that was swiftly swept aside by Voodoo. Even so, this brute seemed to prove her theory of 'not-all-stallions-are-bad' wrong. He looked like he was high on his own, self-centered and quite concentrated on believing he could crush anyone out there. The same head carriage and stance was the same as that first stallion she had been unlucky enough to happen upon.
Words lifted into the air, yet the mare cared little about his baritone seeping out from the lies boiling deep within his barrel. Instead, icey tones focused upon those like her own. Another stallion, pulling in behind him and standing like a statue of a weeping angel. Only moving if one did not look too closely. An assassin, a warrior... his steps were too silent, yet nothing could stop the whisper of his breath leaving his bodice.
Slowly her gaze returned to the rock in her hoof, muscles already tensing. The fact was, she knew neither of them, and there was not a
scent to signify anything. "If you turned your back on the Basin once, why have you returned." she nearly spat, putting up a front and deigning to show no weakness before the cocky, impudent, asinine fool... (Not that she knew whomever this Psyche was anyway)
The other unicorn she knew none of, if he was part of the herd she hoped that he would deem her aggression as someone worthy enough to take note of... if he was not, the same onslaught would follow. "I haven't met you either, where do you hail from?" her voice ground out, lowering in pitch. If she must, she would take them both on. This was now her home, her herd, even if she did not exactly know any of them, she would protect it as any loyal member should. Once her word was given, it was solid. Done deal, zipped, kaput, end of the line.
Nostrils flared as she sucked air deep into the barrel of her chest, steadying herself, shoving aside the pain of her travels... Her eyes ignited with fiery spirit, pulled straight down her lineage and imbued in her soul. Myrah, was a Kiger Mustang, and like her forefathers, she would fight for not just the survival of her own, but the survival of the herd as well. It was the one thing she knew was right, even if she knew nothing about herd life its self. That much, was drilled into her head from the day she was born, up until she weaned off her mother's teat. If they were going to put up a solid stone cliff before her, then by the gods she would too. Suspicious, yes, but neither of the stallions looked relaxed, one seemed like he could knock her head off where he stood, and the other seemed to think that he could. 'Pompous...' again her thoughts shot daggers at him.
"Myrah Speaks"
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Menace and malice sang to him, called and heralded his barbaric frame, the only song that could be uttered across his ears, the quietus, the opus, of desecration and devastation. The lad turned man, facing the world with brutality lined upon his shoulders, with the encompassing canvas of fire and brimstone, of anarchy, of mayhem, must have crooned the same chords. Strung by gallows, taut, rigid, chaotic membranes resting until upheaval, until calamity, until bedlam was augured, portended, lamented and yearned, the fatal press of their insurrection, their carnage, their cadaverous pursuits. Friction, grinding, unwinding, pulsing and pervading until there was naught left but the finality, the demise, the rapture and reverie of demolition, obliteration, desecration. Feverish, intoxicating, lush, lavished, heathenous declarations; he listened to each and every word, the begging for entry, the layers of acceptance pleading, demanding, commanding, and he wondered just how far he could push the stag. Could he blend into the corridors of chaos, the callous distortions of their abhorrence, their contempt, their loathing, their abomination? Could he discard frivolous antics, could he combine strength into sinew, destroy foes, conquer enemies, vanquish and deride scorn? Could he breathe intimidation, could he whisper terror, could he bend beneath the wake of their anarchy, twist into blackguard, soldier, warrior and pariah? His severe stare studied, analyzed and calculated, wove machinations into stratagems, wiles and tactics, and only drifted back to the femme when she began spitting her venom.
Her asp hide, her toxic doldrums and her spewing vitriol were a grating nuisance. Perhaps she sought approval, a nuance of fleeting glimpses, bestowals of pride and charity, a recommended launching of strength rendered to the next in power and possession. Unfortunately for her, she received nothing from his frame but the begrudging slate of his titles, fulfilling the candor of her ignorance with his deep, resonating enmity and rancor. “Deimos, General.” He then dismissed her from his thoughts completely, no longer obliging inexperience and unfamiliarity. It was the stag that summoned him from the shadows, and it was the same brute he’d examine and survey, ponder over the wake of a vicious change, and if the savagery, the cruelty, was truly layered beneath the scars. His mouth parted once more, an uncommon occurrence, to unleash the harsh potency of his voice, the chilling, glacial, nonchalant features bristling and unraveling, chaos craving companions, ferocity fueling fervor. “What have you learned?”
| Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 6 |
| Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.0 hh :: 3 Years HP: 63.5 | Buff: ENDURE |
| redgod |
06-07-2013, 11:06 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-07-2013, 11:08 PM by Varath.)
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IN SEARCH FOR THE GUIDELINES TO THE GATEWAYS OF SIN
Sophistication as cruelty and perfection as virulent truth
Varath was not a king yet, not even a prince. He was a student of the darkness and an acolyte of the wicked, and he stood with a confidence that his training had permitted. Body, mind and soul, he had been remade from a brat into a soldier, but now his actions would prove whether he deserved to be more. He had gone through trials this mare had, perhaps, only dreamed of in nightmares. The smell of ash as it fell from the sky like snow still filled his lungs, and some of the scars that now lay on his body were still fresh, pink colored and not fully healed.
Like a phoenix, he had been thrown into a fire and was reforged into something greater, and with hammers of war, he had been tempered. What was left of the child had been killed, so as he stood before the mare, it was not with arrogance or pride but honesty. The darkness had claimed his as one of its own, and he was confident now in his path and purpose as well as his ability to fight.
With Deimos standing close to the demanding mare, Varath inhaled deeply, feeling a calm rest inside of his soul that could only be attributed to the fact that now, he thought that he had seen everything. He felt that he and Deimos were closer now, whether or not that was true, but feelings were often not rational. Varath knew that he should quit them, like the addiction they were, but in one place, he disagreed with his father. Passions made him strong.
"I was never a part of this land for my back to have been turned," he replied simply, the depth of his voice new to his own ears. It seemed to hold an age now, a maturity that suited his own tastes. "When I arrived I was plagued by an ancient disease known as 'petulant' child, and I sought answers about my past that only one could answer. In the process, I have grown; I did not leave my prior land until I knew that I was ready - that I had become worthy." Varath spoke with a natural confidence and grace that he would loathe to think was very much like his father.
How did she not know Deimos? The very general of her own herd. Just as the death dealer seemed to brush off her demands, Varath followed suit, listening carefully to the words of his self-proclaimed mentor. He asked a question, wanted to know more about who he had become and what he had learned. Pride swelled in his chest, and he externally tried to keep cool, just as cool as the stallion across from him.
"Perhaps the most important lesson I learned was maturity - when to speak and when to act and when not to. I have earned scars from battles fought with my grandsire and his legionnaires, and what they taught me about combat, I think, cannot truly be matched - as that is their purpose in living. The powers I possess from the Moon God's grace have also undergone tight scrutiny, so I can now control with greater focus and detail the pain I bring," he replied, memories flashing behind his eyes. "But I also learned that war is not won by simply destroying the land, like my grandsire would claim...." he rumbled thoughtfully.
"War is won when the light of hope fades in my enemy's eye - when their will is broken that rebuilding is not a dream, but a nightmare."
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Image Credits
Myrah
Ooc://Ouch... you guys left me confused on how I should respond lolz//
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The fire struck chords within her, growing and building to a crescendo... anger flooded her synapses as she was swept aside like a new born babe to a tide. Perhaps her responses had been elongated, to far forward, too venomous, however how was she supposed to respond to two strangers on the horizon? Let them pass without issue? To wreak havoc on their own agenda?!
Deimos, General, wraith that slithered across the ground as swift as the night... obviously did not care for her, or want her there. A shallow snort blew from her nostrils, permeating the air with a thin cloud of fog. Then this... Varath, sure he answered her questions without hesitation, even going as far as to insult her before he too followed suit and brushed her off like a fly nipping at his hide.
Instinct told her to shout, rant, rage, burn these two alive for treating her like a leper, yet the calm side of her mind... the laid back side told her to stop, take a breath, and just listen. No longer was she a part of the outcasts, spanning the land and wandering where she pleased... no, now she was a part of something... a herd... and instead of reacting with fire and malice, she needed to react with a level head and learn the proper responses. Her inexperience flashed like a red flag, and already she could tell that to survive in this herd, she needed to show she was worthy of it.
Another deep breath sucked deeply into her barrel, eyes closing briefly as she recollected herself, and cooled her jets. Anger was blinding, and she couldn't afford to piss off the first 'higher-up' unicorn she met in the herd. Forcing her ears forward, a small sigh whispered past her ivory cage, and bled out before her. Lids peeled back, opening the world before her as she tried to listen, and consume their words.
"Myrah Speaks"
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
The monster always looked for fellow heathens, those that gathered amongst the licentious creeds, the bold, the fierce, the enlightened brows of tainted anarchy, of iniquitous furor and fervor. Cold, arduous passions settled over stone and iron, distinctions fired and fueled by the veils, the hot oils, of Stygian fuses kindled, incensed to ignite. Heartless, ruthless, invoked and yearned by the threads of relentless entropy, the silent, the deadly, the ravaging and pillaging, the scores of life unsettled and twisted by unholy, ravenous raptures, and, oh, he’d whisper his damned secrets to their captured ears, he’d distort them into the shadows, he’d corrupt and condemn until their virtues were annihilated and all the could taste, all they could touch, all they could divine were the bodies that fell from their infernal, infidel savor, flavor. Their castle walls relished the lacerations of its savage merchants, of its intrepid, blackguard protectors, prospering sanctuary from their bestial, brutal barbarity. Drowning, smothered and suffocated, in the entity of the primordial, the arcane, the reticent cutlass, the insouciant, puncturing, piercing vehemence and violence, his eyes glanced back over to the boy and slid the enigmatic pieces into shape, the cruel, heathenous machinations toying over the chilling void, the glacial empire. The mare was altogether ignored for the runes placed before him, the chiseled, forged child brandished by hell and turning his hands over to the wicked, to the loathsome, to the diabolical and nefarious, eager to be further tarnished, awaiting the day of glory christened and anointed along his scarred features. The rumble of his composed words, harsh, brutal, deep intonations rumbled with acceptance, with the pernicious promise of persecution, the horror, the hallowed, hollowed bits of immorality, of decadence, of all the rich dissolution laying in the chambers of their callous existence. “You may join, Varath.” Then, just as silent as he’d arrived, he slunk away, sliding, bewitching, alluring, death’s hushed warrior, the unreachable, the untouchable, allowing compliance, bestowing confirmation – and the colt could follow, into the atrocious gallows, into the immoral, odious hallways, just as beguiled and tempted by the vicious, by the unscrupulous.
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