the Rift


[PRIVATE] Stormclouds

Belial Posts: 33
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE
charks
#1
He watches the sea and sees past the ocean. Far away his mother is watching, waiting for a sign of her youngest son's success. Leader of angels, the Seraphim is walking into the ocean, feeling an icy chill upon her fragile hocks. She raises a chiseled head crowned with horns into the nighttime sky, and calls a greeting to the errant son.

On the shores of Helovia, the Demonchild replies. His voice is heavy in the frail moonlight, casting shadows in the darkness with its hauntingly melodic depth. The ocean picks at feathered hooves, seeping into the groove between broad toes, leaving sparkling salt in the black of his legs. The monster's pale mane glimmers iridescent under the weight of the moon; it reflects strands of pale ocean blue and cold, uncaring white. Beneath the woolly weight of a winter's coat, dapples gleam metallic bronze, hardened armor of the warrior descendant. His mother watches from eons away, and sees that he is worthy, and smiles.

A storm begins to brew, a distant threat in the East that tears bitterly against the child's skin. Rough ocean winds rip at his mane and leonine tail; clouds boil overhead; the ocean picks up, gentle current now a crash of waves. Threat and despair, the elements rebel; yet naught can shake the child's stance, the strength of his horns or the bright of his eye. He has found his flesh, his place, his home. The storm gives him strength, and he devours it greedily. For once in the span of a restless, relentless life, Belial has found peace, and he will hold to it with all the ferocity of a starving beast.

Belial the Demonchild
Even the devil was once an angel


image credits
table by whit

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


LACE</style>
before the sun sets
GLORY
</style>


Pain. It was a glimpse of hell, a taste of what was to come for those who sinned deeply enough. The sensation was all encompassing, constant, never ending. It engulfed him, wrapped him in searing flames and carved through every attempt at thought until everything that existed was but a faint echo resounding through the empty void that had been his mind.

It was the price he paid for trying to use powers he couldn't control. It was the result of wielding the so called blessing of the gods despite his deep loathing of it, for no other reason than pride and a stubborn refusal to seem weak in the eyes of his enemies. He hadn't been forced to enter the battle against nature's wrath. No one had urged him on, whipped his legs into action and commanded destruction to take place... None other than himself and his ego.
He didn't know it, but a bitter smile lay glued over the black lips as the stallion limped down towards the beach, each step a pure agony that threatened to send him into the void of unconsciousness. Only the fact that his body was healing faster than what was natural had spared his life, of that he was certain. How anyone would have been able to survive the barrage of fire, acid water and violence was more than he could understand, and if the grullo hadn't witnessed and felt his own body patch itself up he would never have believed it.

Groaning from agony the injured warrior forced himself down into the salty water. Unable to hold back a shriek of agony as the minerals burned into the scorched skin he still welcomed the icy cold waters, trembling as it rushed up to cover the burns on his legs and belly. Deeper and deeper it became as he slowly waded out into the pitch black sea, until the surface was broken by nothing except his neck and sand swirled in torrents that played around the hooves. Shuddering, gasping and struggling to keep on his feet as waves pushed him this way and that, Lace only reluctantly turned to watch as water flooded the deep pits of blood and pus that dug into his rump, caused by the corrosive liquid that had splattered him as he fought the giant. He could see the pallor of bone where flesh had been melted off the hip, watched oozing meat sizzle as the foul liquid came into contact with the ocean water. Repulsed he closed the eyes and dipped the head quickly beneath the surface, snorting and spraying water as he resurfaced - very drenched, yet slightly more refreshed.

A worried trill from above made him look up again, salt stinging the eyes as he turn to look after the white dragon that slowly circled him on wings that glittered and gleamed in the moonlight.
"I'm fine" he tried to reassure her as her mind prodded his, anxious and shocked by how badly he had been injured. It was hard to convince her. Even his mental voice sounded tired, frighteningly weak due to the poison that had invaded the body. It slowed the process of regeneration, dulled his senses - she wanted him out of the water, away from the wind-swept dunes and back behind the safety of familiar borders.
"Rest, then go home" she impressed on him, for maybe the fifth time since he had descended the Heavenly Fields. Lace sighed and shook his mane, slowly starting to make his way back onto the beach.
"I know" he agreed, but knew that it would be easier said than done. Would he have the strength to close the distance between the ocean and the Edge? The magic of the gods that now sustained his life was strong, but was it strong enough? A healers touch would aid him greatly, but Smoke was far, far away and more needed in the veiled forest. Fajira had offered to fly and fetch her more than once, but the suggestion was continually beaten down. No, Lace didn't need help. He would be fine, there was no need to bother anyone else.

He would fix this himself, or die trying.

CREDITS: Schwartze | venomxbaby | 116802
BronzeHalo.deviantart.com
♦ Permission granted to use magic and violence on Lace and Fajira
♦ Only tag in new threads, spars and if it's urgent
The Store | The Warden

Belial Posts: 33
Hidden Account
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE
charks
#3
He thinks that he might rule the heavens. He wants to be a great general, like his uncle; a queen like his dam; a god like his grandsire. Since birth has the ambition lain snakelike beneath the grass of his youth, dormant yet breathing, imagined success holding it back. Yet now, all at once, he realizes his failures. The storm rages on, and takes with it his mother's smile. Demonchild turns his head to the wind, ears pressed tight against the massive skull, and stares into the heart of the sky. Whips of salty water lash pleasantly at his hips, deliciously painful reminders of his forced mortality; he is lost here and not up there; he commands no storm clouds, no armies, no nations.

Not yet.

He smells them first. The dragon smells like fire and brimstone, an aching sting against his nostrils that he immediately rejects, snorting loudly and shifting in the waves. Then comes the second warning, a high unholy shriek ripped from the throat of some wounded beast, the call of a life leaving a broken body, louder even than the tearing wind. What is it, he wonders - demon or angel, friend or foe? Nay, it sounds mortal, a wounded rodent waiting for extermination. The demonchild feels a mild curiosity coupled with desire, desire for the power he has lost to the storm, desire to crush and carry and control.

The moon is gone, swallowed by clouds that laugh in the face of this crime-to-be. Demonchild makes no effort at silence, it is not his style; in the darkness and the wind it is still too easy to spot the luminescent bay, the four-horned son of angels and gods. Mane tears wildly at the fingers of the wind, long and leonine tail drifting serpentine upon the surface of the sea; his steps are laborious, but not hurried, for he feels no need to rush to the scene of this destruction. Nay, he savors it, tasting excitment upon a forked tongue, two-toned eyes bright with violence. The world shall be mine, and you shall be first, dragon-friend.

He sees them, outlines in the first drops of rain, equine much smaller than the horned behemoth, dragon still indistinct. Forward he presses, tall form surging through angry waves, nothing threatening yet without ease. He does not speak, not until he stands nearer to them in the sea, a length away; he can smell blood and damaged flesh, and it heightens the excitement in his mind. Excitement that does not show, does not even echo in the beast's dark voice, as he calls out in false care, "You seem injured, friend. Surely you should escape this storm!"

Lies. Lies and secrets are the milk of his mother, the teachings of a serpent on angel's wings that whistle through memories of an absent youth. Falsehoods and secrets will save your life; you must make friends to thwart your enemies, my son. He steps closer now, a smile plastered on the demon's skull- Belial's grin reflects none of his loathing, only a kindness he does not feel. "Let me help you to the shore. There are cliffs not far from here we can shelter under."

Belial the Demonchild
Even the devil was once an angel


image credits
table by whit


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