| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
[fo' Heather, sorry this is so short .__.]
Rainchild, so cloudy in color, leans precariously over the edge, head craning and eyes wide as they take in the vast plane of blue. If she has any notion of infinity - it is this, her great arms taking the horizon in a watery embrace, her fingers stroking every shoreline with the gentleness of a long-lost lover. She is tireless, the sea, boundless and bountiful as well as terrible and fierce, destroying easily where she has created, reaping lives as well as sowing them.
What a beautiful home the roan has chosen, scarred and green and gazing towards the sea. Today the sun radiates down harshly, dissipating any mist that dare cling to ash and forest, revealing the open wound of black as well as the forest of pine so nakedly to the eye. She has once been like this - so careless to reveal herself, but no longer, for the world has hardened her exterior, and the rain-blessed girl remains closed, save to those who erode the stone enough.
Cloven hooves cling onto the rock as she leans closer, inhaling the salty air as it comes into her nostrils. What a charmed living to be blessed with such a handsome abode, what a curse for it to be so torn. She tosses her face and turns back to the charred wasteland, the blue vault of the sky smiling behind her sterling body.
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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 never blessed. Isolation and detachment, abandoned, cumbersome throngs of dirges and requiems possessed, taunted, and anguished what was left of his raw, deluded sentiments. Like a satanic reverie, they cast shades of horrific candor, bottled fragments of compassion, tenderness and warmth and tossed them into the catacombs of deadly, fatal doldrums. Amongst the rotting croons of snarled, intertwined passions, the only dreams allotted and allowed to survive were the twisting barbs of cruelty, savagery, and devilry, majestic hymns of unholy vigor and fervency. Devoutly crawling and clawing along the webs of reserve were the tiny, miniscule shambles of a once strong, valiant heart, a youth’s promising glow, a babe’s mighty prowess, a scion’s blessed conviction, tainted, tarnished, and damaged. And without feeling, without remorse, without the yearning stretch of empathy, he became a remorseless, ruthless, shell, forsaken, renounced, hollow and forlorn into the searing masses of sin and calamity, minatory allure, bestial beguilement, savage seduction. Scathing, scintillating grinds of death, seditious, vile, enigmatically turned into his veins, made the simple caress of a mother’s love impossible, made the sensation of a brushing leaf wither, made an auspicious creation ominous, foreboding, unapproachable. A vessel of demise, execution and slaughter, entombed in the argent glades of his fiendish, callous sinew and muscles, bones and blood. Locked, fastened, in the apathetic threshold of potent puissance, chained and caged in the trenchant, caustic machinations and treachery of a Mephistophelean discord, recoil, and anarchy. Severed and separated from the wild, enamoring clamors of affection and the dulcet whispers of love, he clutched disconnection and harbored the scrupulous reclusiveness of a strangled shadow, living as a reaping, horrific monster. Glacial, frigid, and distant, he gave nothing and took nothing, bestowing licentious credences, argent domination, and predacious decadence in the wicked wings of the hallowed eaves only when he necessitated survival. If he was ever lonely, he said naught – because that was how his world travailed, destined to be buried and burrowed in the finessed, inveigling iniquity of torturous, guarded, hushed furor, not the silken strings of affability and cordiality. He arched in antagonistic prose, posed in scrupulous, fierce acrimony, and poised in the hot, scalding, carnal desires of malice. When one feral kiss, one savage stroke, one foolish brush, could destroy something beloved and cherished, he chose simply to not treasure anything at all.
Deimos chose the sea that afternoon, where the rock walls stood steady, valiant, and fearless, not imposed by his devilish oeuvre. Where the water’s caress did not bubble, sear and burn from his own irreverent press. Where the sand did not crumble into tinier filaments and scald his discordant skeleton, crying for his destruction. Where the tide never failed to reach his hide and slip back out, unaware of bedlam’s anarchic trace on his sinuous skin. It was the only place that didn’t decay around him. It was the only corridor that didn’t threaten to assail him with its own harsh, resenting daggers. It was the only hallway where all his bitter ruminations could pour, slide, from his frame, into the wandering, wayfaring currents, drift off into the endless streams and babbling brooks, forgotten just as much as he. He slipped from the wounds of the earth, where the carcasses of cinders still reigned upon his hooves and the embers of another plunge still feasted on his dark emblem, bedlam’s destructive grace. Features betrayed naught, resolute, recherché, stoic and controlled, the harsh glow of his cerulean gaze only combining with the siren cries of the ocean’s rippling course, statuesque depravity. With the mastery of a heinous, reticent rapier, his movements feasted on the dunes and felt no peril, heard no screams, watched nothing fall – in return, he offered them the contentment of a harsh, discordant sigh, the only weary factor he postured across carnivore lips. The rapacious splendor of his eldritch incantations would be silent, untouched spells, enchantments felt by no one but his primordial soul. Though another’s scent threaded through his senses, he, like so many times before, ignored the concoction of individuals and clans. His motions resumed with their fierce, resolute contortions, raptorial predilection even in the virulent friction of summer’s haze, abhorrent gallows of an additional god. Impassively rigid, he drove his frame into the depths of the sea, felt the licking tendrils of the water’s forgiving, minute sensations, and stood, head raised, eternally defiant, an ethereal ruin alone again. Only cursed.
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| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
[omg okay now I'm sorry that this is extremely late ;___; sorry! why must I always do this??]
She hums quietly as black legs pick their way through the stone and moss, disturbing whatever thin layer of mist the sun allowed. It is a tune she had picked up on her travels, a song of strange and wonderful things - of lovely maids lost at sea and silver fish and dolphins glittering in the sun, although she has condensed it into a simple affair, a few notes which sound suspiciously like the call of gulls and the gentle coo of the ocean. And she - the sterling girl who sings so softly, walks beside the cliff, swaying with each step as if content to be alive.
But is she truly?
Overhead, dark clouds congregate in an ugly mass, dimming the sheer stone and the girl upon it. She shivers with cold, casting a longing glance towards the beautiful darkness of the sea. What a charmed life indeed; so close, separated only by a certain death. Dark feet edge closer timidly once more, nose thrown carelessly beyond the threshold of life and death, of land and sea. She shivers once more, not of cold, but the realization of how vast the world really is, how separated you are from the things that matter most.
And then black ears catch the shuffle of rocks far below what is allowed to the living. With much care, her curious face cranes over the edge, straining to see what is below. Seabirds, she thinks, inching closer, casting her eyes lower. A dark rump? A leg? The tuft of a leonine tail? An ear twitches; it appears to be fine, standing, a hard shadow cast on the pebbles which are lapped gently by foamy fingers.
Huyana swivels around, hooves clattering recklessly on the stony face of the Edge. How will she reach this stranger, so sullenly against the sea? Muscles strain and pull as she is lured into a trot by the intrigue of this mission and the desire to reach her steadfast teacher, so mysterious and babbling and silent. What will you teach me now?
Wandering closely besides the treacherous overhang, those blue eyes search for a berth, an opening, some form of getting to where that dark stranger lies. A smile flirts on her lips, too dark to be truly innocent, and too innocent to be truly wise, but all she sees is tufts of dead grass sprouting from thin cracks in the rock and ash blown by hot salty breezes onto the flat pane of grey. She lets her nose fall to the ground, nostrils flaring as she tries to find the scent of stranger, the disturbed charcoal dust billowing and churning irritably about her head. An inky ear twitches backward; this smell is strange, something she has not found since the fall of Anarore. Death, and the rainchild recoils instinctively, nose wrinkled repulsively. There is a trail of it- sour and bitter and terrible and she follows it like a bloodhound.
It takes her dutifully to a narrow passage etched into the cliffside, and one stray step would prove to be fatal. With grace like water flowing down a steep brook, cloven hooves descend and silver-clad muscles roll and strain with effort. She can see the tides swirling onto the rocks rounded with centuries of erosion, sea foam and algae clinging to the pebbles. The smell is stronger here; it wafts into her nasal cavity and threatens to overpowerher, yet she stumbles from the path and into the shoal, suddenly faced with a monster of a man, as tall and dark as death itself. He broods like a rock against the sea, and she realizes the smell is from him, but he is not writhing in pain. The girl tosses her head back almost defiantly, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and perhaps a little fear. She moves into the water, letting the ocean lap her black legs like a harmless dog. "You are death," rainchild whispers, although not to him specifically, not to anyone but the infinite expanse of blue.
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Within the water, he burned, churned, empty and wicked, lifeless boughs of anarchy and calamity, primordial, heathen throngs of chilling, haunting severity. The feverish, latent touch of the tides fueled destruction, ushered decadence, incensed corruption, their restless, heedless, ruthless motions feeding his bedlam designs. Cast in infernal decay, molded in marble malevolence, bitter and reclusive to the whims of earth’s boundless grace, smoldering in the resentful discord, devouring, absconding, and consuming the flesh of angels, the whisper of seraphs, the sighs of idealists. He feasted on friction, afflicted passionate demolition, and tore the fantasies from weary gazes, heinous, portended scion: a plague on every house, every hall, every parlor. Bestial, clamorous mantles of malice and vehemence, inveigling, robbing, scorching fancies, murdering caprices, hungering for one more touch of a decaying heart, a witness, a player, a pawn to endless annihilations. Deimos slipped from the chords of virtue, slinked from the strings of reverence, stole from the compassionate dreams of righteous missionaries and never looked back at once was. The past was gone and the serenades of family abolished; in its absence grew the eldritch titan of death and acrimony, heartless, callous and impassive. This antagonist motif, this horrific figure, sinned and transgressed, and his punishment was existence, hovering in the darkened shades of isolation, resiliently poised to savor the Stygian eaves, alone, abandoned, finessed and destroyed by his own puissant demons. In return, depravity scored his bones, immorality laced his veins, and licentiousness crooned within his muscles, poured out of his soul, wreaked havoc on the world, an endless cycle of contorting, satanic regime. His wild, fiendish masterpiece, the tremulous, discordant creation of minatory, apathetic enchantments, augured quietus, toiled within his frame, ruining originator and brethren – beautiful, elegiac destruction. So when the waves did not fall to his power, he breathed, and when the rocks did not crumble, he snorted, and when the land did not fade from his eyes, he remained intact, solidified, inscrutable, indifferent, but whole. For here, in these lofty archways of shoal and sand, he was not commanding the end, the demise, and the slaughter. Instead, he was allowed to live.
But then, there is a haunting mutter, a bitter reminder, crossing over his ears, unrelenting and tenacious, tumbling along his frame until there is only the audible crash of the ebb and flow, and the singular phrase marked over his frame, a repetitive slate of truth and veracity. You are death. His head, with its cool, unreadable fixture, turned to warrant judgment on the speaker, the glacial gaze of his blue eyes penetrating, piercing as they glided over a small feminine frame. She too, was of the water, but not like he, not a force sent to find shelter in its inanimate embrace, but a creature of its elements, designed by rain, washed by its mysterious strokes, stained and alluring by its hue. As he was of the darkness, godless and undying, unholy and rotten, she was of the tides, corporeal, blackguards and paragons aligned to ethereal worlds, destruction, terror, and the drenching unknown. His calculating notions wondered what he should do with her, in this arcane bow of calamity, recoil, and feral, savage unknown. Ignore her presence, as he’d done with so many that intertwined themselves in his entity? Toss her aside; threaten her livelihood from the truth she’d already managed to prosper, this enigmatic necromancy coursing through his veins? Movements miniscule, his skull turned away from the cyan essence, from the bubbling nymph at home in the sea’s caress, features rendered stoic, impenetrable in his harsh, unrelenting stance. Still cruel in his nefarious haze, still defiantly poised to rip asunder, to tear flesh from bone, to diabolically demand death and eradication, he glanced towards the endless, eternal sea, and pondered when he would have tranquility. “Yes,” he hissed from barely parted lips, a deep, strident sibilance, uttering candor with brusque, curt tones. He was grim reaper and god of terror, poaching, pulverizing, annihilating and exterminating lives from their rich, unfulfilled vessels, and he was immoral, wicked, iniquitous mayhem absorbing the essence of life from every inch of the world. An unholy creed rendered silent, fatality etched in stone, lethal barbs crushed, enamored, cherished because that was the only thing he could grasp, take and bewitch: he chose who would fall.
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| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
He turns, this creature of death, but she does not recoil. Their eyes meet; dark and blue, life and death, and she feels a filament of something connect with her brain stem, something that reminds her of war and that endless darkness that had claimed her long ago, a darkness that still festers in her dark heart, threatening to pull her under the current. Drowning, something sighs, something too important to remember, life is so ephemeral, and youth dully so.
"Do you take without heed?" she wonders softly; too softly, and there is a note of resentment in her voice. Death has always slithered below the undercurrents of her life, taking what she holds dear in a shriveling embrace, and here he stands before her, tall and grim. She feels a laugh choke her, although in truth it is more of a dry bark.
It begins to rain softly.
Blue eyes turn away, as if withering in their sockets by the mere sight of him. Did he choose to be in such a condition? Endowed by some dark god with a penance for chaos? Or is it innate, something that runs through his veins like a virus. The white head of the ocean devours the delicate veil of rain she has summoned which patters relentlessly against the world.
[fade to black~]
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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 decadence of monsters came with the breathless haze, the wanton gaze, the fervent swing of irreverent opulence – so callous, so cruel, so wicked. Entangled in an infernal bliss, searing, scorching, and simmering in the scintillating shade of calamity and acrimony, pulsing and beating the devil’s cadence. Lacquering the world with treacherous persecution, tearing, ripping and scarring the existence of the futile, of the virtuous, of the forlorn, tossed amongst their vicious shell, their hollow embrace. There was nothing more he had to offer but that odious, nefarious clamor of silence, the distant, unattainable design of his ruthless brushstrokes, the impassive, stoic villainy cast upon his darkened canvas. Cold malevolence, chilled indignation, avaricious gleam of venomous, toxic rapture, the reverie depraved and dissolute in the heinous, predacious insurrection and immorality of his harsh, meticulous soul. He could look upon the world and feel nothing, taste nothing. Sealed in the chords of shadowed supremacy, ravenously poised to plunder and pillage, yet never distinguish the rush of emotion, the pull of sanctity, the tangible sensations of serenity. Distorted into the primitive, raptorial damnation of a cursed being, doomed to the waking curse of unholy mantles, of heathen carnage, of hushed annihilation, pausing only to savor the potent melancholy of lost, whimsical souls, seraphim slipping from their sovereignty. He was lethal grace and ardent elegance, laying waste to useless flesh, pieces of shattered, broken armaments, sieges left to fester in the withering gloom of a battlefield, warrior poet’s prose turned bitter and rancorous. So when she asked her query, delicate, fragile, frail in the portal of his anarchy, his answer was immediately known. He caught the pique in her voice, the tilt of her irritation, the juncture where their differences grew more apparent, but lost in the crashing tides, he did naught to aid her writhing, coiling sentiments. The beast’s gaze glanced towards the horizon, and the harsh, grating sibilance of his voice handed the raw candor of his opus towards her quiet presence. “Often.” She glanced elsewhere thereafter, incapable of bearing his iniquitous chassis any longer, and he did nothing, expression unchanging, indiscernible slate of blue and terror, ice and horror, of unrelenting corruption and insurrection. It was not the first, nor the last that an entity could not bear to look upon him, that a presence would be undermined by his deadly stature, an unyielding pattern of desolation, forced or predetermined, cherished or unwanted. When the rain fell, he felt the anguish of her heart, of her pursuit for morality, but knew very well she would not find it standing in front of him. He took her enchantments as punishment, and stood amongst her silent scorn as it drizzled along his fierce form, wondered if she would try to drown him in the weight of her melancholy. And what is this ambience: sorrow or disappointment? Granting the slightest observation to the morose twist of the blue femme, his glacial words slipped from a parted mouth, an inscrutable tongue. “You are rain.”
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