"Where brilliance is good and madness is better..."
Helovia Info
Helovia opened in February 2012! We are an active fantasy equine RPG
Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.
Site Wide Plots
Kaos :: The Beginning of the End ☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.
Kisamoa :: A New Kind of Kaos ☼ - 3/2017 - Kisamoa asks Helovians to help him restore the Spectral Marsh. Which side will you choose?
Invasions :: All Out War ☼ - 5/2/16 - New layout and the brand new invasion rules are up! Thank you for your patience and we look forward to getting started with this new adventure.
The Rift :: Gods Do Die ☼ - 8/2015 - Helovia Gods are saving the Rift from corrupt gods! Can Helovians band together against these foreign deities?
The Literal Ship ☼ - 2/8/15 - Oh no! You have to pair up for Valentine's day!
Sky Island :: Murder ☼ - 10/25/14 - Vesta has been found dead on the island, and the gods have called to you to solve the murder!
Sky Island :: Peace ☼ - 7/7/14 - An island has appeared in the sky! Clouds carry Helovians from the Veins to the sky.
Restoration :: We Welcome the Dawn ☼ - 9/21/13 - The sun has finally risen on this day, giving the land new light, but the Time God and the Sun God have yet to be seen.
Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot ☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.
☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.
Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot ☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.
Doppleganger Plot ☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.
ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.
Cotm
Character of the Month for
June, 2017
WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!
Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.
With winter biting at her heels, the relentless blight on the land moved to the north, welcoming the frost that wreathed her dark coat with silver light as she rested under the dark of night, circling the realm of the Foothills with a skeptic, detached look in her single black eye, unknowing of the mercenaries within its rolling hills. Her dark, long legs fastidiously clambered over hill and valley, slogging through miles of mud and her hooves dancing through the frigid water of the iron ocean lapping miserably at the sheets of ice rising higher and higher, thicker and thicker, as winter began its progression of cold climate and freezing blizzards. Out she stood on the plains of snow, a wolf among the deer, a raven beside the songbirds, a hawk in a rabbit warren. There was no hiding the strong curve of her scarred neck, the layers of stories told numerous times among the scabbed flesh that shone obnoxiously through the wooliness of her charcoal winter hide. It seemed she was the very manifestation of malice and bitterness, vindication and ambition, from the paleness of her blinded eye to the deadened look in the other, from her weathered ears to her weathered hooves.
The virago did not tend to herself with dreams and precious whimsical thoughts, nor even the lusty musing of a voluptuous, flirtatious woman. Instead she stood, a silent machine on the horizon of pale gray, where the sky melted seamlessly into the snow, and everything lay in shades of ivory and silver, dull and unearthly. A hush had fallen over the northern land, the Frostbreath steppe, one that simply promised to bring a great many terribly things. It was the calm before the storm, the villein's dramatic pause before he reveals his plan with melodramatic flare, heinous and terrifying and utterly exciting, all at the same time.
This was the mare who had skinned her own child with her mouth of acid, her tongue sloughing the very pelt of her newborn from sinew and weak muscle, and watched him scream; merciless, heartless, relentless, all with a deadened look in her eye. And at this moment, the faintest of emotions rang within her; fear, an innate terror of the hell the heavens would unleash with their divine power. Even as this rang within her, her shriveled black heart and her loveless mind, the wind began to caress the snow, at first smoothing the landscape of creamy white glass, and then beginning to whip it into a mountainous fury, a swirling landscape of crystals that stung viciously at the eyes and lashed at the flanks. But Confutatis did not wait that long. Her breathing coming rasping and growling, she dropped her head, pinning scuffed dark gray ears and forwards she began to plough, carving a deep scar in the landscape as the snow brazenly picked up, the wind a howling wolf. Crystal flakes gathered in growing heaps upon her back, and every few steps she paused and shook herself vigorously, dislodging the vast amount, but still it grew heavy on her, and her pelt more sodden.
Out here, being wet meant death.
Urging herself swifter, the beldame searched for shelter, lashes wet with dripping snow. The cold was settling deeper inside her, hard on her lungs and hard on her head, but she ignored the chill. Wind blotted out all sounds, a sinister howl that continued, rising and falling without melody, the lurking monster waiting to pounce, to draw the life out of any sorry wanderer who might be caught unawares. Relentless, fearless, bestial and feral, it continued on, a chaotic storm reminiscent of the devil herself; the devil being wrapped up in Confutatis' blackened form. It was a matter of luck that she found shelter in the blizzard that would kill many that night; a great cavern.
Shadows sprung out at her blind eye, leaving the merciless vagabond springing sideways, bewildered and furious, teeth snapping at empty space. Whirling around, she sought out the vague glimpses with an irritableness that would've scared off a wolf, she halted, hooves shifting and clinking on the stone. And just like that, the bitch realized her err. It was an optical illusion- she was seeing her own self, just in the same way as looking in a pool of water, but multiplied and vertical. Cautiously the mare neared a single pocked, twisting wall, reaching out to brush it with her muzzle, only to jerk back at its' freezing temperature. Confutatis was no idiot- no, a clever and sly vixen she was- but naturally this was new to her and her bad-tempered ways. How often did a horse see it's own reflection? Not often at all.
It was a sinking feeling; one that rooted itself deep within his breast and made him shudder with regret. That’s not to say that he felt remorse for anything in particular, but it was a pressing feeling all the same. Quietly, Déodat stole away from the Basin, leaving behind his patrols in exchange for a night spent under the stars. There was no rhyme or reason behind his plight other than the daily toils that often drove him to madness and a mere abhorrence for the mundane.
Déodat was not a creature that indulged in thoughtless behavior, but rather moments of blissful ignorance. After all, he could not sustain the cruel façade that often soiled his namesake forever... He felt with such heart and such passion that at times he was consumed by it, even burned by it… But that did not keep him from maintaining the formal deliverance of his soul because he was nothing if not refined and certainly well-known for his gruff appeal. The man was not fond of allies and instead preferred the cold reality that came with one’s knowledge of their enemies. Without this knowledge, he felt as if he could not define the relationships that brightened his dark world. Those like Lena and d’Artagnan were individuals that touched his heart when he had least expected it. They had warmed him when he had felt only cold and confided in him when he had felt only the aching throb of loneliness.
But they had not changed him; he was forever gripped by the brooding touch of fate and the violent hands of war. Though they were now only subtle reminders of his past, he was still stained by their follies and bereft by their incentives. There was no hope for change waiting patiently around the corner and certainly no place for his wonton pleas for release…
He was simply unmoved.
It had been some time since he had taken to the idea of leaving the Basin, at least in the name of mindless exploration, but when the notion struck- somehow it took. So without further debate, the beast trekked blindly into the unknown that he later came to know as the Frozen Arch. The cold was unnerving and perhaps a bit breathtaking, but he took it in stride and chose to ignore the painful ache that accompanied the rush of snow and ice upon the gusty winds that swept haphazardly across the snowy dunes. At times he swayed with the power of it and when he became numb to the frigid embrace of all that made him not only mad with irritation and regret, he was calm.
This place was not unlike the battle grounds that told bloodied tales of his victory. They longed to see his wreckage upon the snow-covered plains, but as many would come to know, he was not an animal so easily broken. After countless eternities spent trudging this way and that, the beast settled upon tracing the hardened grounds towards an opening in the ice. It was a large cavern that had certainly sheltered many others from the blinding snow and ice which stood to reason that Déodat had not been the only fool so stupid to wander from their homestead in favor of finding what disappointment lay beyond. However, he was not alone and though he could have turned heel to go- he stayed.
It was a curious thing for the man to endure such brutal climate only to be rewarded with the drab idea of possible conversation, but this mare was also a curious thing to see. With her shoulders tipped and her back raised, it was all Déodat could do not to laugh and assume that she had reckoned her fate with the brink of insanity. Hre gaze seemed to reach beyond the surface of the ice as if she were lost in the promises of some greater tomorrow, but the man could only assume her confusion to be cause by something of a more substantial nature. However, he wasn’t one to sit and ponder her actions but instead he chuckled and mused aloud. “You look troubled.”
She was a queer looking animal with a face laced in white that looked similar to the jagged teeth of an old carcass. But of course, the connections would never be made in the mind of a war-hardened beast because he had seen life in the eyes of those now passed. He had spun the last moments of their existence by the spool of his decay and left them to the earth where they would soon conspire and disappear. He had never seen the process of their misery but instead only the horizon of his success…
Those old bones could not compare to the life that stood before him now. No, they too were only reminders of his past for those in the heavens kind of enough to remember the ones that fell…
Glass. Surrounding her, enveloping her, drawing her into a world of faded, lackluster images of sugar-spun silver and sweet blue, frost-wreathed ice and the faint glistening shadow of something beyond the opaque walls, the shadow of the swirling shining storm. Her very body glistened with diamond, stretched and twisted beyond recognition, just a gray and charcoal mass of thin hips and a huge head. Another step forward brought her body wide and head small, slim legs stretched impossibly long, a gazelle's legs on an elephant's body. Illusions, and how were she to distinguish from reality, the impossible refractions of the dark mare herself over and over, all around her, the malice of her blackened heart seeming to grow deeper and deeper, take disturbed hold of her contorted thoughts. "Impossible," she breathed, turning her head to and fro to try and asorb the oddity that lay staggeringly strange around her. How was a horse to realize or recognize the reflections for the simply "magic" they were? They could not, not unless gifted with the anthromorphized mind humans so often like to put to them.
The scarred beast halted, nostrils flaring, the familiar darkness in her right eye seeming alarmingly dangerous.
Confutatis' skull-marked head twisted, her sharp amber eye, the scrutinizing gaze of a horse not quite sane nor quite insane, lacking in the proverbial rules created by the gods to keep them prey and not a predator, seeking out the perpetrator that roused the basic instinct within her. The very much intuitive sensation of there being someone, something watching her, eyes laying on her dusty black form. It was the movement in the surreal fortress walls that caught her attention even swifter. Glass, more glass, but this time ruby diamond. Hooves clink on ice, her dark hooves, a faint clicking sound not unlike the domesticated dog's on hardwood floor. Oblivion-daughter swivels one ear forward, silent, un-communicating. You look troubled.
It's blood that paints him, glistening ruby, the snow on his shoulder, the night caught in his mane and tail. And his eyes are winter, cold and blue and the howling wolf. What was troubled? Why did the stranger care? The feral beast feels no need to be presumptuous and assume this stallion is like the young that greeted her in the Threshold, low in maturity and pompous in believing that everyone he meets would care to join a herd. In the corner of her golden eye, she can see many of them, facing off to one another. She sees how dark, savage and wild she looks; and she likes that. Better to be feral than aristocratic, or pampered, or pretty. It suits her and the skull painting on her face much better than a well-combed mane and a braided tail.
Confutatis does not blink. Instead, she continues to stare, unblinking, serene, the frigid nip of winter lessened inside the caverns of ice.
Finally, she stirs, shifting her weight and giving a lethargic blink of her eyes. "I am not troubled." Nearing tepid in tone of voice, Confutatis eases back into her apathetic state, as if the trudging through snow had worn away her energy- which it rather had. There was nothing like trekking through the deep white drifts to become heavy in the legs and let the eyelids droop. Except for, perhaps, a battle, like the many the scar-striped mare had participated in. Some were carefully planned, clever and sly, while others had relied upon the basic strength of a madwoman. But it is important to remember Confutatis is not mad. Just ambitious, and restless, and a quiet- or rather, not-so-quiet- lover of chaos, just like her father.
"I am contemplating the strangeness and lack of excitement in this world." Another pause. "Are you troubled?"
The wind howled louder outside, as if aiming to gain her attention. Apart from a mildly alarmed flicker of an ear, Confutatis ignored the call of wilderness' savagery, enjoying the ability to explore her thoughts with ease. Thoughts of blood, lust, war, strategy, hostilities and the plundering. Not the plundering of riches, like the explorers of Spain who sought out the Aztecs and enslaved them, and drained the lake surrounding the island of Tenochtitlan simply to try and find the mysteriously disappearing gold. No, quite unlike that. She was musing over the thievery of joy, the replacement of abandonment and loss of hope, ever the villain even in her ardent thoughts.
Vaguely she can recollect a time when she had enjoyed herself, believing to be of good. The moments before she attempted to suckle, acidic mouth seeking her mother's teats, and then being driven away. Scorned. Having to pillage milk from nursing mother, wreaking havoc on the world from even a young age.
Villains always have the worst of histories, childhoods so full of despair and resentment. Bad guys aren't just born. They have to be made.
06-12-2013, 02:16 PM (This post was last modified: 06-12-2013, 02:17 PM by Déodat.)
déodat,
An animal; perhaps she is stark raving mad… but certainly not dysfunctional. She is wild and reclusive, burning with a fire made of hate or perhaps she’s just insane. In any case, she is mesmerizing and beautiful and everything that makes Déodat unsure of her company. For a moment he stares, content to trace the contours of her face with eyes of indigo jewels… He cannot speak and realizes that there is not much to say and not much more to do aside from gazing on curiously from his perch at the mouth of the cavern.
He is certainly intrigued, but only marginally so… She is wild and untamed and above all else- exactly the same. They are something of a pair and while he does not yet realize how similar they might just be, he cannot help but acknowledge her differences. Her eyes are hard and unwavering and nothing like Lena, who is so often filled with such life that it is hard not to be touched by her exuberance. Yet, it is not so much her gaze and the way that it locks upon him that makes Déodat cringe, but instead the lack of adornment upon her face that turns his stomach. She is but a simple equine and while his heart seems to freeze and his eyes seem to widen, he says nothing.
Leaning back onto his hips, he listens to her chilling words as if they might interest him or sway him in her favor. But, now that he has settled upon the startling features or really lack thereof, he cannot seem to press past the hatred that swells in her name. It is no fault of her own, but in the overture, the man cannot forgive what her counterparts have inflicted. He is unseeing and furthermore unwilling.
“I am untroubled by this lack of excitement in which you are so vainly convinced of, though my kind is not meant to share sentiments with the likes of your breeding.” He breathes, his chest rising and falling with the effort required to keep his temper in check. “Although, I do concede to the problems you pose… Such inferior heritage- does it hinder you?” A soft smirk parts his lips and he cannot help but feel vigilant and strong in her presence.
Could he overcome their differences until the storm passed or would he find himself the victor of a natural two-man scuffle?
What savagery had he been condemned to, to paint his hide with all the blood he has undoubtedly spilled; with the frown etched on his dark lips, impetuous and commanding, much like the retired sergeant of war who cannot lift himself to joy after the death and war and blood he has waged and seen; but somehow, the feral mare doubts this stallion is so much retired as waiting, the panther laying in the trees, tail-tip twitching. What makes the lioness pounce, or the wolf leap, or the bear swat out with tapering and deadly claws; what betrayed them before their first move, the tautness of skin over knitted muscle, or the hunger in their predatory eyes? Insanity and sanity imbued into her mind, waging barbarian war over and over, the conflict between predator and prey, the right side of her brain and the left side, always, always fighting, and yet she remained seamless and functional, sinister and malicious, feral and untouchable. Confutatis' mind was always shifting, negotiating, coming to terms with reality before turning once more to something altogether more wild.
He cringes, the stallion of blood and gore, her sharp eyes notice greedily, wondering if she could press this against him, wield the sword he flees from; but all her thoughts fall flat at his words, hardened and vicious, angered. Blinded, blinkered, bumptious fool presumptuous of one's self because of a horn or lack of. So she did not wear the crown upon her head, nor did it manifest as she pondered the cretinism of the stallion whose eyes were so clever, so dark and violet-hued. He is even more assuming of her, thinking her vain- oh yes, Confutatis is haughty to her fair degree, condescending to a point as well- but is she so vain in thinking that the world seems droll and wholly unappetizing? But these thoughts are driven away, and her heart skips a beat in both curiosity and wonder to his allegations. Did this mean there was a current of unease beneath the ocean blue and free, hidden from the swimmer, a school of sharks swimming silently through the deep? Who, and how; perhaps she could explore the depths of the conflict, prod it towards greater magnitude. Was it because of the assassin smelling of the wilds? Maybe there really was more than just three-year-olds and a lone tiger in the group; no, she couldn't quite believe that.
Racism.
"Care to enlighten a lone wolf then?" Confutatis murmurs, her voice a low cadence, and just beneath it was the ever-present roar of monstrosities. Her gold eye lifts up, looking at the wicked needle upon his head. The odd beast's lips do not curl, nor does she betray any of the silent disgust she feels for such shortsightedness. "Or mayhaps you are the wolf and I am the lamb, at your mercy?" No trace of anger or bitterness stung her words; neutral, nearing placid, uninterested and uncaring. For a long moment the mare studies the gentle smirk haughty at his sooty lips. "The thief is rich as the king, but the king must deal with all the petty problems of his kingdom." The dark mare comments idly, not so readily proffering an answer.
As she exhales, the clouds curl in vaporous white, drifting upwards in a lazy motion, and somehow she seems to use this much as the smoking women uses her cigarette.
"I don't suppose, dear gentleman, you would be so willing as to offer me a name to wield against you?"
Her eyes left him bereft and unsettled as they peered at him from beneath thick lashes. An amazing creature she was, but his hatred for her was much stronger, all-consuming. But with the hate came curiosity and that made him dangerous, made him alive. He was eager to dig into her motives, her drive… and as he stood before her he could not help the vicious smile that found its way to his lips.
It was not hard to see that the man was entertained for the time being and now that the two creatures were alone there in the cavern, there was nothing to keep him from moving closer, breathing her in. Perhaps he is inviting her to accompany him only in the name of curiosity or perhaps he has gone mad, but without any more hesitation, he approaches with a lazy grin. “I would be more than delighted to indulge you mutt. Though, I am not so foolish as to believe that you are incapable of entertaining yourself my dear…” He looks at her now with wide eyes that seem endless in spite of the obvious narrow-sightedness that makes the man a lethal part of the Basin’s army. His thoughts and opinions are unwavering but her spirit is enticing, intriguing.
Déodat is not often compelled to keep company of any kind but when it comes to animals so similar to himself he cannot resist, even if it means spoiling his patience with those unworthy of his good graces. But perhaps this mare would prove to be different… a creature so far removed from her own species that Déodat would be an ignorant fool not to at least learn her name. However, her voice is once again trailing over his thoughts and leaving him unkempt and flustered. However, the emotions are so tightly managed that outwardly little seems to have shaped the impassive grip on the man’s cold, hard, face. But he is beautiful nonetheless as he once again loses himself to her son, her lyrical bravado, and her well fashioned sense of conversation.
“I am Déodat- Warrior of the Basin. But I am more interested in you my advantageous mutt; from where do you hail and what might I call you should I wish to seek you out once more?” He is smooth and complacent, completely unaware of any danger that might come from such an abysmal creature. After all, why would the man –a war-hardened veteran— feel threatened by a simple female hidden away amongst the ice?
Vicious. The smile that grew on his sooty lips, abhorrent and diabolical, sinful and unprincipled. But Confutatis was no stranger to savagery, to callousness and malice, instead embracing sadism and malapropism, like the mother fawning after her young child. Darkness, it blossomed in her heart and filled her limbs with a raw hatred, and with every conversation, every exchange of words, her bitterness strengthened, whatever good had been in her mind paint stripped away, revealing the inferno of maggots within. How cruel and repugnant she was; a rotting carcass swarmed by scavengers, a bucket of twisting, slimy red worms, a green-tinged head with the eyes missing nailed to a backboard as warning for trespassers. It was this mare, this feral monster, that was the scarecrow for all horrible things; it was she who scared off any who dare wander down towards the farmer's black-hearted fields, and the trespassers would flee, terrified of becoming what she was.
Closer the vermilion stallion moved, horn of glass shimmering softly in the shifting, dull light, eyes of indigo blue brilliant as stars among his visage of russet and ebony.
She wondered why he moved so close when his heart was filled with hate for her, and her kind, shamed without the silver jewel upon her brow. If she were of his race, crowned and glorious, would he revel in her nefarious presence? What would change in the twisted dynamics between them, that both repelled and brought them together? They were twins, siblings of blackened personality, and no doubt evil sins. Confutatis did not mind his proximity, not as it must both bother and entice him, and so the skull-faced mare bared her teeth in a wicked parody of a smile, nostrils quivering, inhaling the lusty scent wreathing him in winter's cold perfume. "Even the queen has her juggler," she smirked, velveteen lips parting softly and almost delicately, with a rougish hint to it that suggested dirtiness.
Her playful mood was running out quickly though, her wittiness running dry; still, the vindictive queen listened with a half-cocked ear, idly wondering if it was worth the trouble to pursue him for calling her mutt. No. She could not quite bring herself to care; truth be told, she enjoyed the company of the sanguinary stallion, his brains matching hers. "Déodat, my liege," Confutatis says mockingly, but mutely she fancies the elegance of his dark, svelte name. It suits him like a glove. "I am Confutatis, come from nowhere to leave to nowhere, wanderer and vagabond of the roads." The devil shines within her amber eye. "No need to be hasty in our departing; tell me where you hail from, so perhaps I can sneak in to see you, and we may find ourselves in a world of roguish and young trouble." Of course, it's not as if she simply knows Déodat resides within the Aurora Basin- neither does she know of the vicious Plague- but perhaps it's another sense that murmurs to her a warrior such as this would not reside within any loose-ruled, half-assed herd as there might be in other places.
This time, it's she who steps forward, testing him, seeing if he'll fall back.
06-20-2013, 03:44 PM (This post was last modified: 06-20-2013, 03:58 PM by Déodat.)
déodat,
A cool gust of wind steals in over the stale conversation and both creatures are silent as to hear the storm raging outside their icy prison quite perfectly. It howls in the night like a lone wolf and makes Déodat think of a battered war cry. Perhaps they have engaged this sense of malignancy from their haggard personalities alone, but something about it haunts the beast as he stares callously at the wolfish creature before him. Though she is not gifted with the symbol of everlasting life as he had been so blessed to adorn, but she is hardened just the same. Had she not been tainted, cursed with the ill-will of the Gods, perhaps he would have sought her companionship back to the Basin immediately, but of course her offer only falls on deaf ears. It means nothing more to him than a meaningless taunt from a forsaken adversary. She will lose in the end, but at the very least the beast will enjoy watching her fall.
Her golden eye peers hopelessly out from beneath its heavy hood and it makes Déodat curious to know why the other, so ghostly and lifeless, has come to be of no use. He debates whether or not to pester her about it, but then decides to abandon the thought altogether instead to ponder her cryptic use of metaphor. She is an intellectual creature and Déodat admires that about her only in the name of wasting precious time. Her suggestiveness is also something that attracts him on a more primal level, one that is hard to ignore in spite of their differences. His hips pull inward at her attempt to lure him from his steely prison within himself and though he is obviously aroused by her sentiment, he moves no closer to indulge her sexual ostentatiousness.
“And every juggler his Queen…” His smile is animalistic at best, showy and charismatic despite the well of tension that has formed between them. They are perhaps lost to one another only because they ought to be, so similar and roguish in their mannerisms and speech alone. However, as indigo eyes roam the sharp curves of her frame, they cannot help but to become transfixed. He is allured and inevitably so. She is raked with puckered skin from war, from the road, from her way of life and it is all made more appealing by the brutish smile she wears upon those dried lips. When she speaks his name, it rolls off her brittle tongue like a siren song and he is entranced, better yet mesmerized to watch it overcome the wall of her teeth. He imagines what it would feel like to overcome her as well and the grin that curls his shameless lips does little to hide the wealth of desire growing rampant in his loins.
“Confutatis you say? A name most becoming of your obvious charms.” Still, the beast remains at a distance, though his body pleads for proximity, for release. Whatever had drawn him to this beastly excuse of feminine purpose had certainly become lost to him, but still he was wont, desiring more- more than this harlot was willing to give. Again her words pushed between her lips, lips that he thought of touching, of ravaging with the ferocity of a stallion too long deprived. Though he had grown rigid with the pressure of her nature and her draw, still he evaded the pull to approach, that is until the sin that they’d been avoiding finally made it into the open air.
“I would love nothing more than to invite you to my quarter’s sweet Confutatis. You would find them more than appropriate for our zealous affairs… in fact, devastatingly so.” The evil that lurked behind the depth of a lavender gaze was unseen upon their filmy surface, now clouded with want for seduction, for death. For surely that’s what would become of this mysterious mare upon entering the Basin and what celebration it would be to watch her fall to her knees before him, beg him for the dear life she now possessed with selfish abandon. Oh he would make her his Queen all right and they would both enjoy the fall from heaven.
As she drew nearer, most obviously testing his boundaries, he let her come… In his arms she would find the pleasure she sought and the pain he most certainly desired.
While the wolves continued to howl their melancholy songs outside, Confutatis was not afraid; she feared not the condemned, nor the dead laying rotting, corpses bloated. Did she even have a fear? What terror clutched her shriveled heart when night fell, what nightmares disrupted an easy night's sleep? Certainly it was not him, the stallion spun of blood and snow.
Strange, wasn't it, this lusty desire that warmed her chest? She coveted him, craved the heat of his skin, a gnawing hunger that spread throughout her vicious and half-mad body, drunk on him and his heavy scent, eyes drifting upwards to his indigo ones, and the heat freezes, crumbling, shattering, wreathing her body in invisible frost. Déodat, the loathsome and damned, just like her so despicable and detestable. Once more she marveled at him, the dog finding a new bone to chew, the magpie a shiny new trinket, a fleeting fox making off with a cougar's catch, rejoicing his cold-hearted company. If she were to turn her loins to him, what would he do? How deep did his desire extend? But she cared not for children, the groveling young things of idiocy and blind-sightedness, forced from a mother's womb. Suckling, needy damn beasts. Even this Déodat, forbidden from her seductive hips, could not entice her to bear a mewling child. Not yet, at least, the flawed mare mused.
Confutatis exhaled, a bitter sigh, noting the allure in his voice so rich and deep. Who was it that first began to coax out the hormone-filled tautness between them, as if they were both children first entertaining the idea of curves and voluptuous bodies and manly names? She wasn't experienced in it, persay, but she had successfully carried and birthed slimy son before- so she was not stranger to this heaviness. It was both a chilling and enticing sort of tension, as if the very air might soon split under the pressure, and she basked in it, rejoicing in the delightfully thick air. But something fragile in her fractured upon the shift of his eyes to the scar that ran across her blinded eye, heart hardening. "How did the warrior get her scar, you wonder?" She murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly.
Her single eye notices the tightness of his hindquarters, the flex of his loins. While she is inclined to smirk lazily, she does not. Instead, she sighs and shifts her weight placidly. "And you are simply dashingly rakish." Flattery is pleasant, but she does not flutter her eyelashes in adoration of his compliments.
The black lady did not believe for a moment that he would be so blind-sighted to invite a feral monster back into his palace, but nevertheless she enjoyed entertaining the brief moment of vague hope inside her chest, before she plucks out another meaning from his words. Confutatis laughs darkly, a gruesome sort of laugh that chills the warm blood. "Should I invite you to my quarters?" Oh, certainly he'll understand the hidden meaning. Whether her promises were idle or true, who knows? Only the gods could truly understand the twisted parody her mind was. "I wonder," she murmurs, stepping even closer, until the warmth of his skin is hot on her, and then the fragility of the moment shatters as she touches her muzzle to his ruby neck, ears twitching delicately, charcoal on red silk.
06-20-2013, 06:55 PM (This post was last modified: 06-20-2013, 06:59 PM by Déodat.)
déodat,
Oh what heady passion is this? So sumptuous and alluring, it is mind-blowingly rapturous. He tilts his curious face to her own, sullen eyes now ablaze with heat and the slight tremor of yearning. Each iris has all but blackened the slighted rim of color that once indicated a sobriety long lost to the intensity of her scent, her nearness. He does not want to give in to her feminine pull, but instinct has come welling up from the darkness to cloud his conscious mind. Déodat is lost to her tongue and the way it forms the words he needs to hear, the curve of each syllable reminding him of the incessant moan of victory that he longs to release.
Has he been weakened by the simplicity of nature alone?
Distraction helps him wield the last of his self-control as he gazes along the walls of ice that had once bored him into mundane submission. Now they appear to be alight with cause and beauty, though it is hard to keep his mind focused on the pristine coloring of such frigid attraction when the heat of this mare is so close that he can practically taste her. However, in spite of their obvious want for one another, Déodat can sense a hardening in the way that she speaks of her past. Does she feel the same distance from the pain as he does? “Your scars are but only reminders of better times love. Embrace them.”
Perhaps he would leave his own scar upon that delicate skin so that she might always remember his name, his face. He smiles at the thought, lost in her fragrance of feminine desire, for it is unmistakable now. The pheromones have all but permeated the air and without any more hesitation, the beast groans his approval. He is quieted by her intense gaze and though she is speaking, he cannot make sense of the words she says. They roll along her tongue like water and then tremble over her lips causing him to shiver in response.
“I would not recommend it Confutatis. Such audacity will only incur trouble, wouldn’t you say?” But of course she does not heed his warning and instead pushes him to brink of insanity, testing every shred of willpower that the man has ever been known to possess. He is sick with need, drunk on the power of his desire and yet he cannot move. Her silken muzzle along his skin is more than enough to make him tremble and though he is wild for the moment, he does not indulge- he cannot betray all that he has come to worship in his life. Had he been born any other creature with any other name, he would have given her all that she anticipated, but he was not them and so he stood chilled by her proximity until he was lost in a world of flames that persisted to burn him alive.
War, the battle of two adversaries, continuous and never-ending. Was this what they were doomed to, the savage and never-ceasing attacks between civility and wildness, raw instinct and instincts honed into oneself from weeks and weeks of training. Outside, the blizzard reflected this, in its furious swirling of glistening silver flakes, so thick and swift that no doubt one would disappear within a moment should they step outside of the glacial halls that was both prison and safety. Inside there was a storm as well, a churning turmoil of powerful emotions, of lusty thoughts and sexual feelings, anger and the hunger tirade of memories pushing against the boundaries of her mind, almost ready to toss her into the deep end, where her lungs would fill and she would scissor the water with her legs, only to sink ever deeper, floundering, into the choking liquid of engulfing memories. Of another stallion, a stallion she no longer loved, who had mounted her under a sweet night, and it was his child she skinned without remorse; for she was Confutatis, the feral, the savage, the primitive, the sophisticated, the utterly wild.
Suddenly the story takes unexpected twist, shifting suddenly as her ears twitch, her face stone-still and impassive even as her heart leaps strangely in her chest. Love, he had called her, as she entertained thoughts of a unicorn and a wind-tossed dawn of fights with him, until the ugly spear on his head clawed down her face, pain erupting in her eye and burning there for what seemed like eons.
"Am I a love of yours, or a toy?" Confutatis utters mildly, knowing that neither quite fit the bill. Infatuation, she would call it; an intimate craving for one another. "But," -she does not wait for his answer, for it was just a rhetorical question- "You are right. I see that the raven advises the wolf well."
Oh, the way he says her name; it makes her quiver with delight.
The smile on his face is beautiful, and the yearning grows stronger inside her charcoal bosom. Harmony. They are harmonic, dark and dark; why is there need to balance out darkness, when you can win the world through shadowed moves? The warmth of his skin is wonderful, and she burns with pleasure, silent, feeling his ruby hide shiver and quiver and tremble under her, until she fears it might fall off. So the lamb and the lion lay beside each other once more; still, who was the lion, who was the lamb? And everyone forgot to mention that the peace and the sleep was never easy, but a fragile balance. Was there hearts to be won in this rendition of Romeo and Juliet? Or only a wicked relationship born of tenacious desire and terrible deeds, sins against the divine beings of the sky above and the passion of what surely must become a bloody friendship?
"Nobody said the lion loved the lamb, nor that their friendship was easy, Déodat," Confutatis keens, stepping back from him. "Tell me. Tell me why your hide is painted in blood, just like your heart?"
She pauses. "Share your story and I'll share mine."
She had infected him with the loveliest of sin, turned him from his narrow path onto a road made of uncertainty. But here, hidden away amongst the ice, they were impenetrable- secrets to the world around them that could not be questioned. His sanity had all but disappeared and left nothing in its place aside from the longing to conquer, to defeat. Her skin upon his neck was intoxicating and he was suddenly reminded of the glass world in which they presently possessed. He was fragile, on the brink of explosion and stubbornly trying to evade her suggestive remarks and haughty attitude.
But he was enjoying every minute of it.
That is, until her words were once again commanding him, guiding him away from the physical comforts of sexual appeal and into the darker regions of his past- a past that he was more than willing to let die. His body seemed to respond to her coaxing with a new rigid tension that had not consumed him for some time; all else had been forgotten. Had he not been distracted by the lust and the warmth of her skin, he might have caught her earlier conversation, but now… now he was wrought with anxiety and silent anger, abysmal hate for the creature he once wanted, needed to acquire.
Death seemed a close friend in that moment and he embraced the cold sensation of its hand upon his heart. It felt too much like his father’s stern heel upon his hide in times of warranted punishment- it was home. Slowly, the bloodied beast moved away from his dark companion, eyes roaming her skin with a fervent need for release. Only this time it was much darker, much more intense… it was sadness that motivated his eager loins. “You think friendship was on the agenda my sweet? I don’t think you could handle me darling, for toy or not, you are still nothing but the mutt I had deemed you to be.”
His words are callous and unfeeling, once again stolen away from the heat and the fire that once inspired them both. Retracted, he moved away, seeking distance and miles between them. She could not understand the war that had ravaged his family and soiled his name, no, she was but an animal no more fit to bow at his feet than a beast his bitch (dog). His teeth pressed together as he gritted back the words that tried to follow, but an unknown tenderness kept them restrained. However, the remorse did not last long.
“You are no different than the creatures that refused me help when it was most needed. I lost everything thanks to those before you, those who were able to procreate against the will of the Gods.” He paused, his lips quivering with the last of his self-control before he turned slowly to face her. “You are but the filth on this earth that even genocide could not abolish.” With a venomous hiss, he fell silent, his sides heaving with the calculated constraint of a practiced killer. In all his beauty he was still nothing more than a ghost of his father, a ghost that desired this wolf’s blood upon his tongue.
A world made of glass. Mere moments before she had been fascinated by it, strangely reverent of its fragility and mirror-like properties, as if a lake or distorted layer of water had been lifted up and pasted to dark cave wall. Outside the delicate wall, there lay a dark and twisted world, a thousand secrets to seek and a hundred unseen beings, all with eyes that could see and mouths that could speak of Déodat's breaking of his very own promises. For he had openly admitted to his inclination towards believing others inferior to himself; certainly there were others like him, few and wide-spread in between, but those who would judge him for turning back on his beliefs; a priest who blasphemed the church, a monk who was rich.
The delicacy of their situation was intimate, a coupling as ready to shatter at the beats of a butterfly's wings.
You forget already, this is Confutatis; her heart is stone and her mind is fractured in its reasoning. She is mad as the hatter and sane as the philosopher; her thoughts are gnarled and convoluted, sinister and black with the sins of her heart. The bitch's golden eye watches the near-crazed longing, wishing for her charcoal embrace, and she wanted his, the warmth of his crimson skin pressed against her, melting the frozen regions of her emotion-deprived heart. Did she sense the same peculiar longing within the scarlet prince, with his voice of rich chocolate sweet on her ears? It was strange, was it not, that they held the very same enthrallment for one another when she did not have the hazy pain of being in heat, and yet the attraction to each other was primitive and feral, raw instincts.
"You are a prince who has never bedded nor wedded." Confutatis comments with a eccentric sort of tone to her voice. "If I were to gift myself with the blessing of a horn rearing up from my head, would you feel you could be with me, as we are cursed to not be?" The smile on her face verges on insanity, a barbaric and uncultured grin, the wolf baring her teeth. "The snakes bites it's own tail, sometimes, and round and round in circles he goes." Suddenly the grim smirk fades, and her blinded eye rolls in its socket eerily. Her breath comes in roiling silver clouds. She is fevered, intoxicated, drunk on him like a virgin's first time.
So callous, so distant, yet so dearly close.
He is a knight with tarnished armor, a bear without his hair, a fox without his tail, a bird without her wings. Hiding, from the past, from embarrassment, from something she could not name. "The storm eases, little prince." It is as if she does not care he relinquishes not his hold on his past. As the low moan of the wind dries away outside, retreating, she comes to all four hooves, feet clinking softly against the slick stone of the floor. Forwards she comes, eye set on him, but she brushes past him, swishing her dark tail in his face carelessly, the charming and stark mad mare.
"Come on, purebred lord- let's take your dreams of genocide outside."
ooc: so I was thinking we could leave it here or continue in another thread on the Frostbreath? I was thinking it might be interesting if they went outside and the SWP happened- so it went all dark and scary?
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[O] Magic in death and beauty in blood
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