| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 :: 10 |
| Adoptable |
Deimos, Africa, Arah, Giselle.
Slowly, the cold, sluggish feeling faded, much like rain suddenly stopping and sunlight coming back. Alan kept staggering to the left, winded and trembling, and only barely managed to keep her balance and avoid falling on her face in the trampled muck. That.. that.. she was never doing that again. Leaning heavily against a convenient nearby tree Alan dragged in deep, sweet breaths through widened nostrils, her amber eyes fastened on Deimos: that was one hell of a stallion, and she couldn't put enough words into her gratitude of not having to have him as an enemy.
And she was never, ever going to piss him off. And never, ever again pull the stupid tactic of running back closer to him, even if it seemed to have done the trick. Both mares were down, and the deathly powered seemed to wash away, returning to its master. Snorting shakily Alan decided to trust her own legs, and began to hobble back through the churned mud to where the fallen lay. Slush and damp earth stained Sinuhe's pristine body; blood leaked out of her nostrils, and Alan cocked a 'brow at that. Cursing each time she slipped she gave Deimos a wide birth, but still tossing him her wolf's grin to show that she had no ill feelings - and why would she? She'd walked willingly into his death-barrage, and if she'd died, she'd only had herself to blame.
And, the same went for Sinuhe, she guessed. While Africa's sides heaved where she'd fallen, Sinuhe was still, eyes glazed over, all life stolen from her dainty body. "Well isn't that disappointing," she said dryly, hiding the faint waver still present by almost shouting. "Seems we're left with only one pet." And her gaze slid from the corpse, to Africa.
Now they just needed to deposit Sinuhe somewhere; she'd not start to rot until spring, and might attract unwanted predators.
Maybe someone had a hellhound who wanted a feast.
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
would you mind if I killed you?
Sentient, breathing annihilation, living death, witnessed calamity derived, besotted and bestowed from his demonic daggers, from his iniquitous incantations, and lavished, relished, ultimately gratified by the bewitching nuances of obliteration. The reticent reaper watched as vengeance crooned from the chambers of their domination, from the searing, smoldering, simmering bones of their anarchy, from the twisting, malleable derisions and sedition; witnessed the fall, the faltering, of trespassers, inept, vacuous, inane cretins spoiled by entitlement. Enriched by their privilege, drunken on prerogative, beguiled and allured by the perilous temptations of the treacherous, enigmatic land, they’d been bent, torn, ravaged and savaged after the demands, the commands, the warnings had been laced and layered into the fabric of ice and rime. His distorted, nefarious eyes focused, stared, upon the corpse and felt only satisfaction, the cold, chilling, forbidding temptation of longing to do it again, to drive kingdoms into demise, perishing beneath the weight of his scorching might, withering, decaying and collapsing in one sinuous motion. This was his gift to the world, his oeuvre, his masterpiece, his callous carving, his debauched delight, his sinister sculpture: death, woven into pinnacles and peaks, hides and sinew, bones and marrow. The monster was the devil’s bestowal, Mephistopheles’s artistry, the foundation of macabre canvases and cadaverous tapestries. Another wagging tongue abolished, another audacious cretin filling its tomb, a scattered, fallen remnant of stupidity demolished on the rubble of their inanity and recklessness, savory, embedded in the core of his membrane. She did not receive the bow, the long, arching finesse from soldier to mercenary, he’d given to Jaydan, the winged warrior devoured and consumed by his tyrannical opus. She was not be given the reverie, the rapture, of the quiet, slinking opus, the hushed, serpentine measure of one last taken breath – destroyed, slammed by the chords of his vehemence and upheaval, slain by the abomination, abhorrence, of his contorted, distorted machinations, termination, slaughter for the empire. No grace uttered or possessed her motionless carcass, only recoil, chained to the withering strains and tenors of laments and dirges, no funeral, no pyre, no respite, no repose. Her body became an example, a model, an effigy, of their sovereignty, tossed and torn, bloodied and transfixed into stillness, finally silenced.
He glanced towards Alan for a few moments, otherwise remaining nonchalant, dispassionate, displaying none of the fuming ardor gathered in his pulsing, elegant entity; blackguard encompassing naught but the usual, insouciant regard. She grinned, wolfish, carnivore contemplations, and there was appeasement crossing over her features, feasting upon a clamorous offering for a returned combatant. The behemoth gave her one singular lowering of his regal cranium, representing a feat, an accomplishment conquered, a world divested of its torrents and tribulations, a vanquishing of fellow foes. His eyes roamed to the other fallen beast as Alan’s words pressed towards his ears, gesturing to the other he’d monstrously, cruelly, felled. There was the desire, the urge, the longing and yearning to commit the same atrocity over again, to execute her where she laid, pressed into glacial frigidity, massacred, butchered, consumed by the portended, augured sentiments they’d uttered prior. Instead, however, he does not move, and briefly permitted his mouth to part, open in a harsh, discordant hiss, the severe rasp of hell, unholy baritone. “She is yours.” He’d deprived Alan of a toy, and in one swift action, presented another.
would you mind if I tried to?
Deimos
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Credits
Africa the Starry-Eyed Posts: 727
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Pegasus :: 16 :: 6 (Tallsun) Buff: NOVICE |
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Silas :: Common Zephyr :: Roc
Riven |
![[Image: 515b833f251f3]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/515b833f251f3)
Look down
The ground below is crumbling
Look up
The stars are all exploding
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“Fresh snow has fallen, you must stay close...” The proud stallion, Veroldkel, was devoted to the protection of his one daughter, his only child. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, though obedient in every aspect of her sheltered life they both knew the promise was already cast in stone. Honey-hazel eyes sought her Mother’s warm and contrastingly relaxed gaze, which shifted from her mate’s stern expression to settle thoughtfully; perceptively, over the still young filly’s soft face. “Listen to your Father...” Emelda offered quietly and dutifully, careful always to honour and respect the leader of their intimate herd- even if she could not always agree.
Shadowed tirelessly by the ever watchful grip of the stallion’s glare, the filly slipped towards the Dreamweaver, leaving tiny half moon prints in the powdery white carpet. Her path could easily be traced, and Veroldkel would not risk her safety, her blithe innocence to the hungering stalk of a wolf. Satisfied that she would be safe at the side of the mare, the uncompromising burn of his eyes turned to survey the rest of his loafing family.
“I will tell you a story.” Emelda whispered secretly against the wobble of her daughter’s long clumsy ear. Fantasies, fables and tales alike were strictly forbidden- they provoked imagination, which in turn risked the awakening of excitement in a young soul; the one who was loved more than life itself. But the Dreamweaver had passed on yearning and desire into the filly already through blood; a mind so wild and alive was forming, that even as fairy-tale seeds were planted, thirsty vines sprouted and grew, desperate to indulge their craving.
“It is a tale about the war of two kingdoms. A clash of cultures you might say...”
The thud of a limp, lifeless body slumping to the earth; the sickening sound of breath grunting for the final time, delivered hopelessly from choking lungs- Africa wondered as she lay in quiet surrender if it was her own death she was witnessing. Her eyes were still closed, and even with a mind as innocent and unsuspecting as it had been, the gruesome reality of ending life was very obvious.
She landed upon the alien shore of Helovia, swathed in childlike excitement; determined and ambitious. A new world of opportunity was stretched before her giddy, breathless form- a forest, reeking with pungent pine and the candid flavour of will-o-the-wisp beings, or more sensibly, those who had passed through not long before.
As the breeze licked through the fresh leafy awning edging this halfway-house to where she had been shepherded, the young Pegasus stepped for the first time at liberty; without rule or responsibility, and her great heart pounded with brilliant exhilaration. He wide cream eyes were saturated by the spread of diversity before her- she had come from a simpleton’s life, or so she had thought, and they sparkled curiously, bathing in summer’s unforgiving radiance.
And so there she was, ready to commit to a new way of life. Still dainty and unscathed hooves, stepped with childlike confidence (no matter how arrogant her ambition), amongst those who sought placement and refuge.
The face of a stallion flashed through her frail, ruined mind. His identity was concealed, his expression veiled beneath a shimmering steel plate with pretty gold accents. Two horns adorned his brow, and she trembled at the sight, her body wracked with subliminal terror as she lay sprawled beneath death personified; wavering across the brink of demise.
The illusion continued through the bleak blackness of her futility, she could not escape- though now, the glow of two golden eyes radiated through view-holes, embracing her wholly with tenderness and concern. She remembered him then, Midas, who had found her wandering self that first day in the Threshold. He had favoured her in the crowd and offered her compassion, a home and new family.
Africa’s legs jerked frantically as she drifted in and out of consciousness, the echo of her silent cry; the desperate call for him, the last of her strength, echoing viciously through her mind- though no sound filled the graveyard in which she had fallen, and her effort was in vain.
The armour began to dissolve before her eyes, falling away from his battle-scarred body. And there he seemed to hover above her, shedding that mesmerising smile, the smooth gentle formality that she found so alluring. She loved him, the infatuation was obvious now, and tears swelled in her hot, blood-shot eyes when he began to turn, spreading the mass of white feathers into the breeze which she could not feel; their sulphur tips carving the air as he ascended beyond her reach... he was gone.
A barely noticeable sigh slipped through motionless nostrils.
It was night time again. There was another with her, and together they were gazing towards the star-misted sky. She had never seen the white mare before, though welcomed her warmly- as was her nature and obligation. Words were exchanged, though inaudibly, and they began to walk together; passing through the half-formed wall marking the boundary to their home- the Throat which she loved so much. Already she had brought two wanderers home; Pegasus’ like herself who she thought were trustworthy and fitting.
The white mare didn’t impress the same ease into the credulous tick of her heart. She was strange, and an unnervingly mischievous glint sparkled through her wicked eyes. It should have been notice enough that she wore between those eyes a horn; but she had called herself family, she said she belonged.
They passed through Helovia and into the north, much too close; defying the clear warning that Kri had insisted upon them all. The ghost mare was fearless in her arrogance, her weakness. Unfamiliar faces, etched with unbridled fury began to materialise, though only one provoked the cold promise of death to prickle down her spine- it was too late to turn back. His eyes were hollow, bottomless blue pits which devoured her frightened, dazed form the second they found it, and it was his formidable presence she remembered last, looming over her crumpled body with hideously macabre satisfaction
"Well isn't that disappointing," The voice seemed distant, like a mist drifting between the helpless slouch of her ears. "Seems we're left with only one pet." Africa did not move- though life did begin to seep through her veins once more as excruciating, blood-curdling nausea. It crippled her return from the precipice of life, and her body rumbled with confusion and agony as the last of the morbid magic leaked into the cold, hard earth below her.
“She is yours.” The pitiless, grinding reply followed, and suddenly the reality of all that had unfolded, blazed before the broken mare’s eyes in a blinding light. Flung open in escalating fear, she let her eyes scavenge through the horrific evidence, the leftovers of slaughter that should never have occurred. The corpse of her defeated herd-sister lay ahead, and Africa wanted to vomit her shock, the emotion rattling through her, right there and then. If only; such release seemed to easy and far from her quaking grasp.
Instinctively, though still dumbstruck and helpless with throbbing bleeding wounds upon her shoulder and her rump, Africa rocked to prop across her weak, bruised and trembling legs. There was no last ditch arrogant courage to drown her misery; no sound triumph to relieve the depression which suffocated the once blissful liberty which had epitomised her existence. She had failed in every respect, and breaking into helplessly pathetic sobs, she mourned her pointlessness, and cowered beneath the grisly shadow of her accountability; the cause of her family’s loss.
"Thinking. Speaking. Acting."
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Table Header credits go to baylee.
Pegasus icon lineart credits go to Tamme.
| Outcast atk: 7 | def: 10.5 | dam: 3 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15hh :: 5 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Wynter :: Royal Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Frostie |
Arah
It’s that though we learn from our mistakes we’re condemned,
To make those same mistakes
again and again.
The battle had been hot and furious. Soon it wasn't just a fight for freedom, it was a fight for their lives. The impersonator had watched from the shadows, ready to assist if either of her comrades fell. Neither of them did though, they where ferocious and unforgiving in their attacks. It was clear even during the middle of the battle who was going to win, her brother and sister had it in the bag. The snap of bones breaking. Slap of flesh hitting flesh. Tearing of flesh was as horrible to listen too and watch as what it was experiencing it. Thud. Shock fell on the impersonators face. It was quick, although not entirely painless. The other white mare, the one from the Throat, was dead before she hit the ground. Her glassy stare was haunting, behind the eyes, her soul evaporated.
"Damn." Whispered Arah looking at the result of the battle. Arah's ivory body began moving, gentle steps, each hoof barely sinking into the snow. She didn't know why, but she approached the body. Her face was blank as she stopped just before Sinuhe's now lifeless case. Deimos had been merciless, taking her life and her smug smile away, the once regal mare of the throat was no more. Quickly becoming aware that she was standing in the muddily slush that was left over from the battle, she quickly spun around and walked towards where she had surveyed the battle from a safe distance. Her ears where still perked listening for danger, only she did not feel the need to watch her back as much in Deimos' company. She respected the brute, her eyes rested on him. A god of death, the grim reaper in the mortal form. She herself had taken him up in a spar and she still wondered why she had accepted his offer. In battle there was a beauty about his precise movements, and the fear of his magic. The magic just could just remove your life in a matter of seconds. A single touch was all it took after all.
Now she turned to look at the other mare from The Basin. She at least had let her battle partner live, concern filled her eyes as the mare seemed to be more injured than Deimos. However her injuries where nothing to the winged mare who was lying on the ground. Arah could barley see her chest moving but it was enough to tell that the mare was alive. "Idiot mares." Muttered Arah clearly speaking about the two visitors from the Throat. A sigh tumbled from her lips and the doe shook her head at the winged one on the ground.
She relaxed more now, finally accepting that she wasn't about to be pounced at any minute. She winced slightly as the mare called the living one a pet. She kept her frown to herself though, she did glance to Deimos as he gifted the living one to the brown mare. Arah walked over to the dying mare on the ground, wondering if there was any point in her actually being a pet. "I think your prisoner is about to expire." She called out to her herdmates. Even if she was a lowly prankster, she still had the right to be given a little assistance. Pulling a disgusted face at the smell of blood and death Arah moved away from the dying mare. She wasn't didn't really mind the smell of blood, having drawn a lot of it herself. It was more her imagined smell of death, that bothered her. She knew that she was imagining it. Sinuhe's body did not smell yet, her death had been far too recent for any decay to start. The impersonator was slightly freaked out by the idea that they where taking her death so lightly.
She didn't press it on them though. She had also long since accepted Deimos for who he was, a warrior. Arah looked at the body and frowned openly now. "What are we going to do with that mess?" They needed to get rid of it before another outsider came along, saw it, and ran into the hills screaming bloody murder to all the other herds. Why had she said we? Yes, they were her herd mates, but the last thing she wanted to do was get involved with a dead body. Now that was asking a little too much from Arah's stomach. |
And I ain't afraid to die, I’m afraid of going to hell.
✽ Force and magic permitted. ✽
✽ No fatal or permanent damage. ✽
✽ Please only tag in opening posts. ✽
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