| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
 Bound to the darkness, woven into its Stygian chords, into its ancient, clandestine, covert chains, Deimos eternally answered its melancholy twists and turns with the hum of anarchy, with the flesh and sinew of lawlessness, of discord, of strife and upheaval. Soldier and General, warrior and pariah, recluse and blackguard, seized and seared by the diabolical whims of unholy raptures, decadent atrocities, heinous, ruthless audacities, nefarious prose concocted and possessed. He clutched at the shadows as they dragged him from ruin to rune; the barbaric, brutal hymns of the somber animosity, of the silent, listless and languid insurrections, the quiet annihilation building across hallowed halls. The piercing juncture of his eyes told him everything about his cherished scenery: the Aurora Basin was vacant, without moonlight, without luminous decay, without incandescent withering. It sang no wicked song, uttered no grave sonnets, spat no toxic doldrums, no asp, viper, sinous dissonance and postured no vicious creeds, simply remaining glacial, frigid nuances and portals, deprived, dismantled, hollow and vacant.
Without warning, without forethought, without augured cautions, he too was stripped, Satan’s gifts discarded, Mephistopheles’ bestowals forlorn, taken from his surreptitious sinew, from his malicious muscles, from his smoldering tides and shadowed puissance. Liberation and desolation shattered and shaken in the same breath, the absence and loss of his incantations, invocations and enchantments, the sweeping hands and grasp of death, the ghostly breath of his Reaper chains – but also the salvation, the freedom, the deliverance, to walk where he chose without the kingdom crumbling, without his brethren shaking, without fear, without trepidation, over a loss he did not wish to cause. An itch he couldn’t scratch, a deficiency, a lack, of chiseled arms and alms, of provisions and assailments, that he’d carried through misery, through melancholy, through despair, disappeared, stolen, thrown to the balconies of enigmas and puzzles. Only twice had he encountered the same stead; once as a child, drinking in the pleasantries of youth, dabbling in the finery of curiosity, compelled wits and mastery of nothingness, with no need to recoil, with no need to hide, with no need to forget those beloved. Another in the oubliette of the Edge, drained and depleted, an experience where the condemned became the consumed, rancor reminded and revisited in the ambiguous portals of these shaded corridors. As he walked across the layers of rime and snow, drew to the pine annexes, the mountain peaks, and ultimately along the hot springs smoldering heat, the earth failed to weep, whisper requiems, proffer laments, and the trees didn’t collapse, bow their limbs and boughs to their quietus. His expression gave away naught of his perplexed nuances, detachment sown carefully along raw, frigid features, an inscrutable, nonchalant, insouciant brow
He didn’t quite know how to feel or what to pluck from the neglected shambles of his sentiments and emotions. Did this alter him? Did this change him? Did he lose the intimidating prowess he’d so carefully cultivated, created, carved? Did the mold of his avaricious gleam dim? Did the ground no longer shudder, did the flora and fauna no longer hide? Was he vulnerable, in the shared expanse of ghosts, ferocity and cruelty? Was he altered, broken, beaten, no longer immune to the caresses, the strokes, the fondling and touches of invincibility? He answered all of these queries with a silent no, because he was still beast, savagery and villainy, violence given to vehemence, fury relishing annihilation, poised devastation in the sieging wings of detachment. He was still composed bedlam, sculpted iron, irreverent, licentious, and immoral severity, potency, fervency and power, ethereal dissolution and destruction. He could still construct chaos, he could still unwind morality, he could still demolish, wreck and ravage, stab, obliterate, pierce and puncture, but for once, blended into the wicked winds and the perilous heights, he was touchable, susceptible, attainable, a mortal in the ice.
[Deimos bonding while you can! This is for character development, so if you do intend to post, please do so in a timely fashion. Thank you!]
DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts
and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone
|
background pattern by webtreatsetc.deviantart.com
image credits
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 8 |
| M.E. |
07-12-2013, 11:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-16-2013, 12:08 PM by Zikar-Sin.)
That is the last time I go about and slaughter things so haphazardly.
Such were the thoughts the young Disciple, standing chest-deep in the fiery water pit that sat in the bowls of his frozen homeland, dipping his muzzle over and over again into the murky waters for as long as he could hold his breath. His head would thrash about like a beached trout, but it was all for naught; lifting his dappled head from the tepid bath, Sin could see with crossed eyes how his beard stayed matted and oh so slightly tinged with an encrusting of orange; a metallic scent clung about his nostrils, and he knew that the blood remained there, refused to leave the hairs of his beard and return it to its original state of cleanliness.
Such was the case with poor Sinny; he had killed and wounded before, accidently and on purpose, rarely out of the heated passion of hatred and usually out of the wholesome desire to spill blood for whatever scientific purpose he had plucked from the great unknown void of his own mind. His unfortunate mane was a testament to that sanguine history, though he had paid no attention to such a minute detail before. His appearance had never truly been cause for worry or fretfulness on his part—but today was a new day, this age was a new age. Somewhere in the backwards track of his perceptions, Sin supposed that, as a Disciple and a student vying for the highest reaches of learning, Sin should at least look the part and endeavor to straighten out at least some of the beastly wrinkles that permeated his presence. It wasn’t such a pressing issue that the dappled boy considered spending hours upon hours upon his visage, as he knew certain stallions to do—he wasn’t so vain as all that—but Sin supposed he should at least wash the blood from his face. Besides the idea of more civilized appearance, it was superbly unhygienic to leave crusty, moldy blood upon one’s person regardless.
It was the first chance in a long while for Sin to visit the hot springs, and while he spent the majority of his time trying futilely to wash the blood from his beard, he nonetheless recognized the soothing warmth that crept into his body, the thick, swirling, calming tide that weaved around him and lulled him into a state of comfort. The pits of his hooves began to release themselves from the knots that had formed; the Disciple had let out multiple sighs of relaxation over the course of his time here. Only two things truly disturbed the dappled boy out of the possibility of complete bliss: the darkness, and Crowley’s affliction.
Lacking as Sin was with some pivotal, empathetic piece of humanity that many of his kind possessed, the darkness of Helovia didn’t shake him as one might imagine. True, it caused his mind to whirl with analytics and philosophies and hypotheses—Were there special chemicals in the sky that caused the sun’s heat to burn out? Was there a special stratus clouds made of some sort of stardust that elicited complete darkness?—but the Disciple didn’t feel a wrongness with the dark, didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of fear and catastrophe to associate with the black of the days. No, all of his anxiety was given to Crowley in spirit, the Weaver and colleague that had possessed a clear affliction of the skin when Sin saw him last. And though the brindle hadn’t been spotted in some time, Sin was afraid to search out the stallion—suppose the ailment was contagious and had warranted quarantine? Whatever the case, Sin supposed to was too farfetched for him to consider his commissioned piece—the wool and antlers had been tucked away neatly in a cave where they wouldn’t be disturbed—and only wished his Weaver luck and wondered what had caused such a spectacular display of unhealthiness.
With a pensive snort, Sin came back to his surroundings, but the bath had lost its relaxing luster; his mind was a buzzing mess of things now, and it was clear that there was no washing the bloodstain out. Heaving slightly, Sin reared and launched himself sloppily out of the spring, sending droplets of the murky water to and fro. The wintry air of the Basin bit into his sides and back, but it was a bracing chill that he welcomed nonetheless. It was a reminder of home, forever and always. He was just finished shaking himself, dreadlocks flying to and fro, when he witnessed a piece of shadow moving in his direction, a horse-shaped void that moved about in the backdrop of dark. Sin’s ears perked, his eyes going slightly wider as he guessed at the identity of the stranger.
“Crowley?” he asked, voice raised in mild interest; dripping wet and slightly shrunken looking, Sin wasted no time and trotted toward the dark shape, his eyesight becoming clearer the closer he got. “I—oh no, my apologies,” he said quickly, stopping in his tracks and forlornly missing the Moon God’s gift of night vision—for this passing, morose gentleman wasn’t Crowley, not in the slightest. “I must have minerals still in my eyes,” Sin said in his pleasant tenor, eyes bugged and lamp-like, almost glowing eerily in the darkness they were so blue, “I do beg your pardon, sir, for I don’t believe I know your name...?” How absurd he must appear, this sopping wet scholar with eyes like saucers, recognizing the aura of brutality that emanated from the shadowy brethren of the Basin—but feeling no caution from it, no overbearing instinct for preservation, broken as his psyche was. The only thing he noticed was that this stranger wasn’t quite as polished as Crowley had been, though the brute certainly seemed to have a chip on his shoulder of some kind.
[Hope you don’t mind me plopping Sinny in here :I ]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IMG Credit: ness094@deviantart.com
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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 fuse, friction and fissure of damnation stared over the abyss, the dungeon, the glacial cataclysm and embraced its dark form, became one with the shadows, with the demons, with the tattered fragments of iniquitous halls. Seduced and embraced, master and menace, molded magnum opus of infernal, devilish decrees, even without the tainted form of demise and quietus slinking over the depths, the fathoms, of his sinew, flesh and blood, his soul was still marked for ruin, for havoc, for abomination. With every slender breath he courted the rapture, the reverie, the destruction of the finest halls, with every tender, sinuous movement he dove into the tenebrous thicket and threatened to devour the warm moralities, the taut virtues, and with every moment he lived, another caved into a condemned cavern, hastened away by the fury of his creation. With ferocity came termination, with power came precision, and with his massacring machinations came slaughter, robbing, absconding livelihoods, scorching, smoldering, constantly consuming the flames of existence, sentience and humanity. Strangling, choking, rattling and smothering the echoing voices and chambers of paragons, of saints and beatific reverence, tossing, unwinding and unraveling the reverberations of singsong arias, he delivered harpooning legacy of morose, villainous recoil, heinous grace. Marked by precision, molded and woven into the drowning hums of pernicious, puissant poison, strength and power derived by fervent passion, disastrous decay, withering hearts and unzipped revolution, where his incantations remained silenced, he became ever more malicious, ever more vehement, ever more twisted and muted. The monster was hushed resonance, the reverberant outcry of villainy, the rise and fall of infidels and decomposition, resting against the surface of the earth, ripping out compassion as seconds, minutes, hours and days passed by. Not subdued, not despondent, but waiting, eager, for the taste, the deliverance, the liberation and relish of infatuated rectitude to come crashing down from the heavens, calloused, ruthless, heartless, menace in the wings. What he wouldn’t give to denounce each waltzing, wandering affection and sentiment with the flick of his rapier, swift, brief, brevity in the Stygian shallows.
His eyes caught the stray motion of another, and the piercing, lacerating gaze ensnared the juncture of beast, of the unknown, of the unfamiliar. The scent that drifted upon frigid winds was not wholly strange, it had been stranded amongst brethren gathered at blasted meetings and political drones, but with his reclusive enmity, Deimos never put a face to a name. The opposing stag’s stare was an interesting conjecture, aloof, distant, nearly moonlit and seemingly eerie, ethereal, abnormal in a world lacking any glow, any luminosity. But where the behemoth, wretched and abhorrent, sinister and nefarious, radiated and immersed himself in the stretched hands of satanic bliss, of infernal licentiousness, he felt no animosity filtered from the fellow Unicorn. Was he without morals, without scruples, without ethics, and merely good at hiding it? At chasing it away into the gallows of his emotions, confronting abhorrence and might with quiet perusal, harmonious study. Not wishing to be a piece of his inquiry, examination or analysis, the powerful features of the argent Reaper remained nonchalant, composed, indifferent and apathetic. Even when he perceived him to be Crowley, a silly rumination that wasn’t worthy of regard, the deplorable, horrible creature remained insouciant. Statuesque depravity carved into the length of cloaks and daggers, he uttered a simple answer to the other’s query, imperious recherché grinding along the deep carnage of his vocals. “Deimos.” The alluring, beguiling depths of the General’s scrutiny didn’t cease there, pausing momentarily to model his own poise and prose – what little he was willing to give. “I do not know yours.”
[I don't mind at all - thank you so much for posting! <3]
DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts
and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone
|
background pattern by webtreatsetc.deviantart.com
image credits
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 8 |
| M.E. |
A pleasant smile settled upon Sin’s features as he surveyed the dark stallion before him with extreme interest. It always heartened the Disciple to learn his peers a bit more each day; a sense of solidarity was strengthening in his heart for this wretched place. “Deimos,” he repeated with a firm nod of his head, “And I am Zikar-Sin, sir, Disciple of this place. I do apologize for my lapse failure for familiarity. It seems many come and go here, sometimes to return, mostly to wander off with their own business. Though,” Sin’s head cocked a little to the side, splaying the matted pieces of his mane in a different array, “I must admit, I do perhaps remember seeing you sometimes on the outskirts of our herd gatherings, yes? Which makes my lapse in attention all the more deplorable. Oh, what embarrassment. I must work on that irritating trait of mine.”
After this, there was silence at last from the dappled stallion, an invitation for his shadowy comrade to intercede into the rather one-sided conversation Sin had instigated. Whether the General chose to speak or allow the silence to stretch, Sin would stand there regardless, his coat still sopping wet and coming to curl into a shaggy hide of semi-frozen fur, his wide, almost protuberant eyes settled unblinkingly unto the grey form of the Reaper. It wasn’t until a stray droplet of water escaped into an eye that he shifted himself, seeming to remember finally that he was, indeed, drenched and exposed to the freezing air. Admittedly, the winds of the Basin were fair in comparison to the bitter frost of the Steppe—but that didn’t mean that it was incapable of turning a thoroughly wet piece of horseflesh into a living popsicle.
“Please excuse me a moment,” Sin said in an agreeable voice, stepping a little ways from Deimos, where he shook himself rigorously, sending flecks of water this way and that, hoping none of it reached his companion. By the end of it, the Disciple was a veritable mess, with his coat and mane shaggy, fly-away, and most disagreeable in appearance; in the moment, Sin was vaguely reminiscent of an underfed wooly mammoth. However the access water was away from his body and his coat was as clean as it could get, which was quite enough for Sin. He returned to Deimos’s side with a satisfied lift to his tail and the same, interested expression glued to his eyes, which were, in turn, glued to Deimos.
“I supposed it’d be foolish of me to ask if you’ve noticed this rather intriguing state of dark we’ve entered,” Sin said, gaze momentarily thrown upward, searching out the absent heavens, “It’s quite extraordinary, isn’t it? Though I can’t tell if it’s a natural anomaly or…something….other…” His eyes returned to the sky with a pensive look, voice trailing away delicately in a way that suggested Sin’s mind was whirling off again into its own tangent. “I wonder how this will affect the life that depends upon direct sunlight for survival. Will trees wither? I wonder how long it will take….will it eventually affect us as well? I haven’t felt a thing…” He shook himself slightly, is attention coming back to Deimos with an inquiry in the cock of his ear; I wonder how he feels about these things…?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IMG Credit: ness094@deviantart.com
|
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
He was accustomed to violence, the dominating villainy of massacre, of slaughter, of vengeance and malice, coercing the living to fall where they stood, perished, destroyed, and ruined. The reticent creature, however, was not habituated to ceaseless, useless prattle and chatter. His words refused to flow unbidden from a chiseled, rancorous mouth, didn’t dabble the air with toxic indulgences, and dismissed the notion to hiss and growl unless the situation deemed it a necessity. Any prose he posed was action, the only eloquent motions and movements he gathered, chained to the armaments and brutality of his nefarious sculpture, the unholy vehemence of his collected lethality, his carved menace. He severed, detached, lacerated and ruptured, terminated ambiance and repose in the taut air of silence, in the hushed atmosphere of death, destruction and carnage, and spurned the notion of applying his mouth to the same recoil. But this stag before him didn’t follow the same formula, guidelines and methods. He rambled, mumbled about being irritating (which Deimos was inclined to agree with him upon that subject), hastening his greetings with elongated conversation that merely left the Reaper silent, staring at the other in his usual, blank reticence. Inwardly, there was temptation to rip out the Disciple’s vocals, ensure the wagging of his tongue would never prosper again, a jumbled shell of syllables and phrases left to the air, executed and exterminated. Even when this Zikar-Sin finally managed to pause, the statue remained silent, grave and mute, extending the taciturn void into a destructive force of hostility and tension. His impassive features barely moved as the apostle shifted to alleviate himself of water and brine stuck to his pelt, the piercing, puncturing gaze watched as droplets cascaded over ice and rime, offering naught but the entropy of his wicked figure. The demon and infidel wondered, briefly, if his incantations still churned about his veins, would the opposing male no longer exist, caught by the tangled threads of pernicious puissance, coated and annihilated, damaged and depraved, sensing nothing before it was too late? The notion itself was a pleasing image.
But Zikar-Sin continued, and Deimos was not permitted the imagination of a fallen, eerie comrade, tongue stopped and mouth gaping. He mentioned the darkness, the overwhelming stature of gloaming and gloom, and though the fiend had not complained about it, the effect of no magic centered into his bedlam, into his chaos, into his mayhem, was still a disconcerting sentiment. But he had no answers to give, no response to offer or bestow the other, and if one who followed the Gods had naught for explanation, an irreverent, infernal soul surely had nothing. The depths of his cruel gaze flickered towards the horizon, watching it play against the backdrop of shadow, caressed by complete, eternal darkness; heathen and witches’ brew, heavens tainted, disorder enacted. Lined with persecution, oppression and tyranny, the supremacy and dominion of its inaction should have left him mesmerized, contemplating how to acquire such power, but he already believed in his own dominance, mastery and authority, and to be controlled and contorted by something else invoked only frustration, barbarity anointed and hallowed in the crisp shell of his violence. His eyes returned to the glowing, ethereal countenance of Zikar-Sin, and his tones reflected the stark reality of his brutality, he had little to offer, little to say, little to feel but the sharp prick of vexation. “I am unaware of the cause.” He paused, thought to reveal nothing at all about his own affliction, but perhaps, in the weight of upheaval, insurrection and mutiny, the Disciple could find answers in the enduring shade. “My magic is gone.” Stolen, taken, absconded and pilfered, like freedom and disaster all at once, smothering, strangling, choking and uplifting.
DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts
and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone
|
background pattern by webtreatsetc.deviantart.com
image credits
|
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