| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Deimos lived for destruction, molded monster malevolence into abhorrence, into still, rancorous knives, into thunderous requiems and laments of enlightened ruins, waking from the pebbles and sinew of their open wounds, of their fallen flesh. He relished the shaking of bones, the whimpering and screams of moralities sundered, of ghosts scouring and scarring stitched fortifications, obliteration stretching from his bestial scythe into the blemished horizon. Sliding halos whispering the pernicious plunge of their divinity, of their virtue, stained and torn by the Reaper’s mottled rapier, blood-sodden cutlass, the devilish decrees haunting labyrinthine corridors, the entangled maze of his actions, sentiments and emotions. Thriving on persecution, boiling, incensed, invoked candor yearning for the taste, the ambrosia, of decadent annihilation, courting his munitions until they languished their avaricious, twisted desires, distorted, devilish dreams dominating callous, glacial motions of a behemoth unraveled. He’d absconded, he’d plucked, he’d devastated, and would do it over and over again, damage, disfigure, watch as the world burned, seethed, and smoldered beneath his voracious, insatiable ardors. He’d push creatures off cliffs, he’d ensnare their propriety, he’d drive, assault, grind and harpoon until their demise was a mere hum over the spectral plains, until they disappeared into the nocturnal reverie and he’d begin his search for another victim again. The battle within the Throat only plagued, made him ache for more sedition, insurrection, revolution pervading his veins, an iniquitous oeuvre carved by satanic rapacity. A witness to damnation invoked, conjured, by his mere presence, regarding the faltering, the stumbling, the fall of another, all by his silent opus, all by his savage conducting, his brutal composing – he yearned for more of the triumph, the barbarity, the atrocious hymns cresting over his ears. Screeches turned to harmonies, pleas churned to merciless bounties, the battleground became his home again, assaults and sieges like the stroke, the touch, the caress of Mephistopheles praising his bold disciple. Were he able to return, to carve his heinous disregard, to strike, to devastate, he’d promise, he’d pledge, he’d assure to pillage, ravage and leave their world as forlorn, as desolate, as his wicked, devious heart.
Yet, he wasn’t permitted. The stings of the theater of war, of the dias, of the stage he’d played master upon, complemented the unraveling of fortitudes; motions rendered stiff, unyielding, muscles bound in bruising effects. Not enough to summon a healer, for his prowess, audacity and pride didn’t dare to herald medics, menders or nurses, but certainly a drawing length of vexation tracing over his cranium. Barbs of a Pegasus’s wrath, slams, recoils and bites, ferocious, stinging, but not the same ailments he’d made upon her own hide (stars in the muck, mire, of quiet, sullied, stolen ichor, life laying in the dust, dusk and sand of her home, entombed, garroted, gallowed, awaiting consciousness to roll back into the whites of her eyes). The necromancer followed the frigid lines of his home, his kingdom, his empire, sketched laborious movements over moonlight and shadow, absorbed his mind, his facets, his features, into the din of darkness, and paid careful heed to the spring’s vestal melting. The scent of the hot springs, the beast’s intended destination, ushered his labored frame forth, and he stepped gingerly into its embrace, unwinding in slow, deliberate machinations. The distorted warmth of the water (was there another time, another place, where the element graced his resolve, ruminations and ardency?) glided over his frame as a tender hold, unfamiliar, crooning in an assuaging abomination, causing the slightest form of relaxation, the softest snort to exude from his nares, brows unraveling from their nonchalant expression. An offered, brooding contentment, breathing and bleeding into his Tartarean guile, his infernal artifices, from triumph, from conquest, and from the treacherous gloaming drowning his barbaric body into its lacerated animosity.
| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
Under the moon's rounded face she picked her way through desolation, tail dragging limply between her hocks. Like the west wind, she whispered through the dusk, the moon reflected in her big blue eyes. What was this place, snow glowing dimly in the moonlight, moon unmoving from her place? Was this not her home, but its couple, doomed to shade for its nameless follies? A seed of worry sprouted in her heart as her gaze wandered through the darkness, combing each corner for some answer or reassurance or anything that could calm her worries. Winter had passed and spring would much too soon, but where had she been to be so oblivious of this curse? A frown disturbed her features, like raindrops on still water, nostrils quivering as they took in the cool mountain air. Eyes turned upward to a velvet sky, the lines of her face illuminated dimly - frigid mountain air caressed her exposed throat, sending a thrill of cold down her spin as she watched the pale disk, studied its unnatural luminosity, its ethereal radiance. A plume of breath purled from her nose, falling through the frigid air until it dissipated in a scattering of glitter illuminated by soft incandescence. She skirted the still lake as quietly as she could, dark toes barely slipping into the half-melted snow, barely leaving a trace as they moved her steadily forward. Half-memories of reapers and nymphs laughed through her mind, recalling blissful days, oblivious days; it was a time where, though darkness still sat in your heart and strangled your breath and threatened to drown you, there was hope and there was food and promises of new things. Huyana dare not look at herself now in that cruel mirror, fearing her hollowed cheeks and the ribs which peeked through her patchwork coat like inner demons.
Since the hour night consumed day, when corruption threatened to spill across the fragile walls of happiness she had built around her heart, the rainchild found herself escaping this bleak future which threatened to twin with her desolate past. The darkness came down so suddenly, like an iron curtain drawn around her happy places. She did not want to relive this pain, this fear, this emptiness, so she did the only thing she could do - run. It was so laughably easy how the roan had escaped the dark - it was as simple as following the falling sun, slipping past the borders into light. But where would she go? Would she pursue another entirely new life in a strange land, like she had so many times before? Could she have risked breaking her heart again - could she afford to do that?
The answer was painfully clear.
She spent the following seasons watching Helovia's borders from beneath a winter sun. She was holed up inside her head, trying to make sense of her ideals like a young child, shunning the world whilst reevaluating herself. Loneliness was something she had never felt before, but far removed from the sea and the pitter-patter of rain, Huyana felt despair and much more isolated than she had ever felt.
So, when the moon peeked shyly over the horizon, the roan returned home.
With all her musings and ponderings, Huyana did not notice how warm it had suddenly become or how much heavier each breath was. It was when she noticed a flash of familiar blue, her mind stopped turning like the tumultuous ocean it was. It was him, he who could rob life with barely a glance, the lord of death, master of life. A heaviness settled over her heart, crawled up her throat like some evil, scheming thing. Though he poisoned and stole, murdered and eradicated without a second thought, Huyana felt no resentment, no hate. She wondered at this - a younger her would have loathed him and all he stood for, but she only felt emptiness.
She finally knew why.
Death was not the problem, nor was the business of taking lives - it was their duty, their job, their livelihood, the only thing they knew. If you were never taught peace, how would you do anything other than fight?
An ear flicked back almost timidly in contemplation, and she stood still, barely daring to breathe. She marveled at him, how vulnerable he seemed, how mortal, healing his wounds. Huyana hesitated, wondering if she should interrupt him or leave him be - would he hate her for being so weak and abandoning them, when the best thing she could do was stay and help?
Would he care?
She doubted it.
"Deimos," she whispered, sounding braver than she felt. Her voice was drained of any innate joy she may have harbored - it sounded old, weathered, like stone after a millennium of erosion. Why didn't she stand and defend her own?
Coward, traitor, betrayer - you can't even root for your own ideals.
Ashamed.
|
[ hey if you substitute krazie instead of huyana, those are my feelings regarding this post : ' D ]
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
The warm water lapped and cajoled at his muscles, mended the torn, worn fragments of sinew, and stitched coiled seams until the smoking air of its divine caresses left him besotted into vulnerability. For once, the rigid stance broke, the sharp, conjoining lines of undulating influence, power, slackened, and he was left gliding an easy breath from his fixated lungs, dreaming of raptorial reveries, of predacious assaults. The slits of his puncturing eyes closed, ghosted over the transient, ephemeral courtship of tranquility and treachery meeting, mixing, converging and descending over his nonchalant features. Lulled and listless, strangled and tattered from the mutinous grasp of the devil, he basked in the sultry swoon of the spring’s gentle, assuaging hands, slipped gratefully into its hold like a forlorn child, sickened by its depths but incapable of straying away from its toying ministrations, unwinding, calming, loosening the threads of his eternally taut figure. The most vivid of sirens, it streamlined along his shoulders, pooled against his haunches, left droplets of heated tendrils coasting in gallant rivulets, searing, smoothing, simmering along the intertwined aches, captured by its archaic spell of restoration and renewal. Even in the heady musk he didn’t retreat, allowed the imprisonment of his form to slink further into its boundaries, adrift, varnished and reassembled again by its wholesome luster, locked into repose. When had he last tempered the skill and breadth of his predilection, the temptation and rancor of his ignited bloodshed? When had he last calmed, not felt the fury of damnation licking over the tendrils of his ichor? The silent queries were left unanswered in his mind, for the memories were long past, distant, fleeting and idle, and instead of feeding the seditious splendor of his twisted, nefarious heart again, he brandished the unclenching of his jaw, the fluttering of his eyelids pressed against his cheeks. The Reaper could think of war, could dream of malice, could play witness to the standing, guardian peeks or dabble his eyes towards the horizon, but instead, his mind, uncluttered, unfettered, entered placation, lost to the ends of the earth in quiet, patient detachment.
Deimos’s leisure ceased to last, however, when the sounds of another approached. He nearly thought to ignore their presence, to feast on the dredges of their echoes and displeasures as he disregarded their intentions, essences and existence, but a familiar scent rumbled through his nares, his name enamored and postured by a wraith. Piercing eyes opened immediately thereafter, widened for fractions of a second at the thought of being unguarded in her apparition, the creature whose patience, persistence and perseverance led to too many unraveled secrets and washed away enigmas – until the General’s stare narrowed in speculation, as if he were never too far from treating the world to more unholy bombardments, more scattered, maimed bodies. His voice was an entirely different manner, invoked by a short gulp, a haggard breath, shoved and forced into a grating, harsh, unrelenting torrent of invocations, “Huyana,” finishing on a tenuous, breakable gasp. The sharp intake of air forced his lungs to cease their ambient disapproval, and he allowed the layers of the restless moment to pass in strangling, choking defiance of his former bliss; that she hadn’t caught him enjoying being restored to former glory, former health, former dominion, supremacy and fortitude. Deimos said no more, and returned to his cold, calculating study, perused her form, her face, her features, for the signs of liveliness once coating her vocals, the silly, inane desires of hope and benediction.
But here, she seemed entirely robbed of euphoria, elation, the quiet, unsung peace and repose she fluttered and hoisted aloft for him to see and drink in, the subtle, sweet intoxication of ambrosia he sometimes devoured, savored, without her looking. Like a girl wed and bed on a garden of thorns, she’d become a blue body concaved where hardy, healthy flesh once laid, awkward and angular, bones jutting from sides, unhealthy, gangly, delicate and infirm, words that should have never described her corporeal form. Was this a specter then, and he was dreaming, hallucinating in the mending bath? Had the sweltering mountain air poisoned his lungs and dazed his senses until he knew naught but incantations, beguiled by passing hauntings and deliriums? He tilted and inclined his head, extended further examination of her still, contrite form upon the bank, and realized her frame, while meek, while fragile, still remained Huyana, with regret passing through her stare and breath. Forever sullied by the actions of her people, carrying the weight of shadows and dawn, and for some reason, he almost growled at the distaste of her displeasure. Why was she so troubled? Why did she harbor shame, for what had she done to harpoon and lace herself with the traces and sketches of humiliation? He knew the sentiments of such reeling emotions well, the bitter, intoxicating sweep of its immoral justifications, of being captured, of being bereft of curses and bestowals, of striving for liberation and being close enough to taste it, teased, tantalized by the prospect of triumph, and to be ultimately disappointed, dismayed, humiliated when one’s ability simply hadn’t been enough. Had she begged and pleaded for something beyond her reach, tempted, allured and beguiled, swept into the seams of darkness, until she no longer slept, until she no longer ate? And should he have been irritated, vexed, that the sea nymph, like so many others, hadn’t descended into the arms of their enemies to fight, to corrupt, to chain and imprison? That she’d disappeared, vanished, into the inky veils of night?
The Reaper didn’t move from the water, didn’t sigh, didn’t query, didn’t question, didn’t bark or voice his disapproval as he would to his men, foolish and unwise, ghosts mislaid and wandering. The dispassionate flow of his features entwined into slender threads of inquiry, a brow raised in calculation, lips twisting and then parting from their inexpressive line, words uttered, clipped, short, segmented to a rich, sharpened point. “You are rueful.” There were no inquiries etched into their fine edge, but she’d understand his invitation to discourse, and if she disregarded the notion, he wouldn’t pry again, let her keep another secret tight against her chest.
| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
He stood in her element, unguarded, and she was close to his - weak. Were their elements so entwined? Death and rain were not such different concepts. Rain could reap and maim as much as death, and death could relieve the most wretched of their insurmountable burdens. He took notice of her - she could tell because the air between them became taught, tense, no longer easy with lonely bliss but fraught with the tensions only company could bring, of that lost nymph, eternally drowned in her own sorrows no less. When his eyes opened, she could have sworn to seeing a glimpse of surprise - but it was gone long before she could dwell on that. And when he said her name - that too was different, no longer the cool baritone she knew. Huyana. She almost relished that word in his mouth, the first time anyone had said anything to her in days, weeks, months, years. The girl clung to his voice as the words faltered, almost amazed that she was interacting with another member of her kind once more.
The silence afterward choked her, and as he did the very same thing, her eyes wandered over his body. Where she wore weakness and damnation, he emanated strength, virility - life. Wounds traced his dark hide like ancient words to a prophecy, illuminated by moonlight until they no longer seemed gruesome, but like art etched into stone, fine masonry. Too fascinated for disgust, she followed them as if his skin was a map to redemption. Huyana did not care who he had fought or what merit he had earned to gain them - they were more beautiful this way - little mysteries snaking over his bodies, evidences of some success or another. She tilted her head, finding his face once more, gazing into eyes that could be both hard and surprised.
Huyana had never met someone as honest as the Reaper - he brandished his ferocity without lies, never pretending to be anything more than he was like so many others of his profession were wont to do. Most fought with a gilded blade, too proud to realize the significance of taking lives as easily as breaking a brittle branch; they were mindless machines, slashing and stabbing only to taste fleeting victory. They killed in one name or another, writing their rancor off for a greater good. But what good was a purpose that had to be reached through blood? Her jaw clenched, the ligaments rippling through the soft tissue of her cheeks. But Deimos was a soldier nevertheless; with blade or teeth or talent, it does not matter how you slay - you are damned when you take a life. Huyana was unusually qualified to judge; her life had come at the cost of another's life.
Deimos spoke again, his voice quiet but commanding, the stone features chiseled into curiosity. "I chased the light," she said, the words less uncertain, a moment of boldness trapped within her words. Was it bravery or cowardice that led her to escape? Did she try to find solutions, or did she run to save her skin? An audacious hoof found footing on the warm silt where water met earth. From beneath a swath of forelock she studied him, dragging in each lazy breath as if it were her last; steam and mud and the dusty smell of male. "Did it rain?" she wondered aloud, watching him intently, trying to understand.
|
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
The General knew himself well enough, as one discovers their munitions, their smoking guns, when left to their own devices for twisting, withering, rotten, desolate years, idle time passing between youth and adulthood where separation and strangulation caused indifference, to note he would never pursue the heaven’s flickering touch as she did. He’d long since fallen from grace, never the paragon, never the epitome of anything but the clutching, scarred grasp of nefarious ideals and wicked intentions, pieces of collected scythes, rapiers and cutlasses mortared together into a ruffian, brutal statue. Satan’s proffered son, not made for slithering half-truths and simpering smirks, only the grinding particles of pain, of anguish, of the hushed, breathless gaze of death trickling over fragile forms, bending, breaking, friction finding bones, arteries, sinew, piercing until flesh turned to ash. If he’d ever been a scion, it was for ruin, for disaster, for catastrophe and mayhem, where bleeding hearts left trails of worn paths to follow, to discover, to grab and tear when he’d found their collapsed bodies. He never hunted and howled for light, divinity or virtue, the only elements he shadowed were the cool, chilling detachments of darkness, its distorted enigmas, its fiendish whispers courting his veins to pulse, and the blazing tempests of fire and all its wrath, all its fury, all of its ire igniting the particles, the heritage, the beliefs and creeds of his ancestors. But she clamored for illumination and brilliance, for the brightening skies and the glittering touch of the sun scattering across their rocky outcrops, their heinous valley, and he couldn’t give any of it to her. He wouldn’t know how to cross the skies, to ensnare the scattered droplets of stars and peel them across the horizon, to ask instead of command, to beg and plead instead of demand. They were inundated in the wake of the darkness’s everlasting embrace, and for a few moments, he stared off into its endless abyss, to the moon, to the nocturnal splendor, and understood why she suffered beneath its reign.
Where he could stand beneath its suffocating countenance, absorb, drink and savor its unholy armaments, she resisted, a creature of nymph quartets and courtyards, where the courtiers melted and molded into laurels, beautiful, regretful disasters, constantly fevered with remorse, lined with repentance, contrite, guilty, for all the things they had no control over. She allowed herself to be swallowed by the sheer domination of damnation, and where he joined its corruption, its immorality and depravity, debauchery sketched over the outline of his immoral prowess, she’d become engulfed and enveloped by a lack of peace, no repose, no reverie - he couldn’t bestow her raptures either. With nothing to proffer, Deimos remained hushed, considered her regard in the layered coils of the spring’s rising steam as the heat sank into his muscles, drugged and dragged his carcass into soothing livelihoods, with none to give her. No altruistic gestures, no empathic vocals, no understanding regard passing from his lips, only the sinister silence of his apathetic, hardened stare, gazing deeply into the forlorn features of her downcast woes. It was obvious she’d not found what she sought, brought back to the frigid walls, the heedless earth, to the licentious caverns hovering and cavorting with mayhem and menace, alone and out of place. He was left to wonder why she’d returned at all, when faced with the encroaching, pervading malice. Was it for the pressing nature of homes, kingdoms and loyalties, tied down by honor? Companions, brethren, brothers in arms and peace, combined to extend her salvation when the air stifled it? Or something else altogether, more mysteries left to unravel, disentangle, separate? The ruminations were left stifled, unuttered and unanswered.
At her inquiry, the Reaper drew his attention away from her stare, down to the embankment marked by softening shoal and silt, the water intertwining and mingling with her hooves, constant reinforcement of her union with waves, sand and sea. Did she think to join him, converge with death again, or was she merely desperate for rain, for the taste, the touch of water cascading over her frame, willing to share with the other occupant of its finest tirade? He would have remembered if it had rained, immersing and submerging their souls in its cold strokes, sensations of delusional deluges, but it’d been too chilling, too unrelenting, the finest caresses of his own seditious, merciless season, winter rolling and reeling in its vicious, villainous haze. When Birdsong contorted, they’d attacked in the flood and veil of darkness, invaded with the refinement of clouds and shadows, but no, no showers shared and shattered over the mist and murk of their resolution. His voice was gruff again, restored to its archaic denizen and design, walls placed back over the threshold of their audacious creator. “No.” Perhaps he would have stood in its overwhelming depths, recalling and reflecting, reminded of his moments fighting with mortality, incapable of siphoning its power for himself, loosened and slackened in its cool finesse. If he asked her to call for its dominance, would she? To drown him in the curtain of its supremacy, to counter the weight of all his disappointments, all their failures, all the bitter aftertaste of their foiled plans, crusades and sieges? To combine with the murky reign of the hot springs, leave him blended and fused into statue, monster and molten heathen? Instead, he backed away, shuffled a few steps further against the opposite bank, granting her room should she wish to enter the vivid quarters without the swarm of death crushing, annihilating, and languishing the hold of her presence. He said naught more, lowering his head to press his lips into the water, treating the silence as an open invitation to repent.
| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
Sometimes, Huyana wondered what the Raindancer would do if they met again: would he be proud? ashamed? would he even recognize his own blood. The last he had seen her, the roan had been still half a girl, a dreamer, a protagonist. Her ideals still had burned hot within her, contrary to what her passive element would suggest. But as fire consumes and water erodes, over time her desires and aspirations became impossible dreams. Too many times had she attempted to right the world, cure her society of its maladies, and it burdened her with a sense of failure, and she became a cynic. Why try to save a dying man if his fate was sealed in his eyes?
Why did she keep returning here if darkness always lapped at her heels?
His answer was a simple word, curt and concise. She had expected no more, but it hurt her the same; how could a land go without the soft spray of early morning drizzles? The controlled ferocity of a summer downpour? Her dark head bowed with somber thoughts, eyes turned down to face the ruined footing below her. If she could not summon the will to make it rain, who could? No matter how much she urged those fleeting droplets from the heavens, they would not fall. She mourned, she let herself fall into decay while her heart still beat its desperate tune.
Deimos drew away from the shore, water swirling in his wake. He looked so natural in her element, rivulets of liquid washing over his glistening body. She thought it an invitation - to what? Blue eyes gave him a lingering glance, wondering. Another hoof joined the first, both slipping in the loose mud as she hesitated. Slowly, the steam enveloped her, stroking her jaw, her throat, her chest; it immediately made her feel more alive, more.. herself. With caution, she sidled into the water, stifling a gasp of gratification as the warm water enveloped her limbs. It was a wonderful feeling, and for the first time in much too long, Huyana felt at ease. She closed her eyes in bliss as her body sunk deeper into the warmth, encompassing her belly, her shoulders, her spine, until only her neck remained dry, mane swirling carelessly about her.
For a while, only the bubbling of the hot spring sang above the silence, and Huyana let one eye open, watching the general's lips pressing into the steaming liquid. All her inhibitions washed away with the dirt and ash, her worries and her nightmares, every regret she'd ever had. Sometimes she wondered if instead of the usual red, her blood was water; and instead of the Raindancer and his consort, if her parents were the rain and the sea. She pondered this quietly, all the while letting her eye rove over the water's surface, curiously watching the ripples Deimos made as he drank; there was distance between their bodies, but she could feel the small waves lap against her own. All beings can become united in water, no mater how physically far they may be.
""
|
[50th post, woo!!]
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
In the arms of the elements restless stone molded into an archaic, primitive blend of eroded marble and corroded monolith – lithe, minute contortions of primal incantations, a sinuous ripple of water puncturing the reticent altar of silence, filling in the void of hushed lures and quiet, aloof entropy. The devil’s opus, strung by snaking, supple strings, the distorted hymns of a master’s oeuvre, a masterpiece carved into diligent, limber insouciance was pierced with the simple minuet chords of the sea-born girl’s motions. Churned by currents, by waves, by rivulets and droplets, cascading munitions of a careful, scrupulous smile, a saddened grin, a trusting silence embraced by the void of bleeding heart sentiments witnessed, transfixed. Dipping into the springs, lissome, willowy, embarking into vestal mirages and ruffled songs, divinity upon her breath, and when he caught the ghostly trace, the exhalation, he barbed the air with sumptuous immorality, scintillating sin, barbarous brutality. Lacerating stare ensnared, snagged and beguiled by her entrance, he merely captured, allowed temptation, enticement to bridge over his sight, the wake of her sorrows, watched as they drifted into the open embankment of still, muted serenity, the art of repose, tried to imagine the embalming sentiments of anguish and torment. The symphony of terror, the translation of loss, the ire and errors concocted by dominating beings, stealing, absconding, awakening the filth of the earth; and he was one of the satanic, nefarious beings, plucking and toying with ancient kingdoms, hoping they’d crumble before his eyes, become ashes in the depth of his wrathful wake. Demonic, Tartarean, the chilling pinnacle of pernicious annihilation, seeking obliteration in the empty fallows of his tarnished, tainted essence. What did she aim for, in this denizen of smoke, horror and melancholy? Why did she return to the coated requiems and laments of gloaming, without preaching her might, her wishes, her fantasies? Did she yearn to delve, dive, into melancholy, drink the blood, sweat and tears of the strangled, dying bits of heaven? The sweet fervor of ambrosia before it tumbled, crashed from peaks and clouds? Why did she sacrifice her sanctity over and over again for the fuel of despair, ignited and despondent as each season passed, more deplorable than the last? Why did she sketch the outline of his sanctum, pass over the wreckage of his predacious prowess, build smiles around his taciturn walls, carve monumental hopes along the ridges of his cruelty? Why, after all this time, did he let her?
The Reaper maneuvered forward, embraced by the curving, twisting undulation of the pulsing, coiled fount, a maddening, slow conviction pressing deep into his ruthless design. Muscles licked by the licentious creed of his brutal ferocity, of his raptorial fervor, fusing into the remorseless, iniquitous flame of his ethereal existence, heathen brushstrokes dabbing over the mire of his argent domination and debauchery, swindled the nocturne air for the taste, the touch, of her veritable virtue. Did he miss it, the potent caress of her plundered beneficence, forever neglected, renounced, abandoned and forsaken, matching his unholy possession for the imperious indifference of his ravenous plucking, his unforgiving cauldron of avarice? Had he looked for amongst the wild, ravenous splendor of woods, fields, shadows and light? Had he waited for the simmer of her aspirations as seasons rolled without her grandeur, a statue seeking the gleam, the finery, the glow, the warmth, hoping to be woven without seditious threads, without penetrating, forbidding seams? Had he yearned to taste the dignity, the poise, the prose, of her resolve, devour, swallow, and condemn until she cooled the weight of his meticulous, demanding villainy? The infidel’s advance brought his argent figure in front of her body of blue, and he lowered his mouth to ghost over her ear, the sensation of deadly breath stroking the raw tides, the vivid bulbs of her confidences, brimming and brewing with the finality of his carnivorous soul. For once, he bestowed her with something, reaching out with a confession unseen from nonchalant features, his rapt, blunt, untamed candor, the wreckage of folly clawing into his flesh, into his innards, into his sentiments, until they poured from his tongue, crooned along his lips, and dabbled into her mind in one fiendish, unraveling whisper. “I am tired of defeat.” Invasions, campaigns, scathed and ruined, battles fought and won with heedless direction, with merciless, torn fragments, with nothingness entombing the bloodied efforts of his crusades. Machinations, calculations and devotion marred, ruined, obliterated at every bewitching turn. Carefully drawing the control of his noxious enchantments, for a scarce, shattering moment, he turned his rigid, apathetic face into her cheek. Bowing his head against her strength, he fed and fueled her the certainty, the confidence, of his power, loosened the taut fabrications of his heresy, and heaved the smallest of drained, haggard sighs across her skin.
| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
09-08-2013, 11:12 AM
(This post was last modified: 09-08-2013, 07:23 PM by Huyana.)
On tall dark legs he approached, leaving a swirl of warm water in his wake. While she watched him placidly from beneath black eyelashes, Huyana could not quell the uneasy feeling that swam in her gut. It began as a murmur, vaguely eating at her stomach, but it steadily increased in urgency until she could ear her heart whispering in her ears; was this his brand of death, or another kind of magic entirely? She did not balk, nor did she flinch - it was not time to be afraid. As unwilling as the roan was to admit it, she trusted the Reaper, in a way she would hesitate with others. This seemed like a scene from another world - ethereal, utterly untouchable - the moonlight cast him a faint halo, a thread of light silhouetting his horn, his face. He almost seemed like a phantom, a ghost from her past come to haunt her, but there was something so tangible about him - the way she could feel the warmth of his breath as he came close. I am tired of defeat, he admitted quietly into the humid air, the words falling like raindrops into the water. Huyana studied him for a moment, scrutinizing the impassive features, the eyes which reflected a skinny roan girl, too sad for this world. Then lay down your arms, she desperately wanted to tell him, every word scrawled across her expression; but she bit her tongue as well as she could, knowing it would be futile. As she could not live without her rain, he could not live without his carnage, and that was that - it was under their skin, in their blood, in their genes. They could not simply stop who they were, what they did.
She wanted to tell him it would be alright, that defeat was just another way to learn victory, but what right did she have to those words, when all she did was lose? What good would those words be?
Instead, Huyana kept her silence. She was tired of this darkness, of this lack of life; she was tired for him and all the world. He surprised her by drawing ever closer, until his whiskers brushed her cheek, the warmth of his being radiating onto herself. Skin pressed against skin, and an instinct prepared her for death, for the touch of his magic - but it never came, and his warmth was just as any warmth - wholesome. He sighed quietly against her, more heat between them, and she wondered at how vulnerable this made him seem. The feel of his weight against her cheek was not unpleasant; it dulled her pain, her sadness - it brought her to earth, made her feel. She turned her face into his, tracing his jaw lightly with her nose, nudging the crook of his mandible with her lips. So strong was his sinew, taut and lean - he was a thing bred for war, for athletic feats and victory. They were of similar breeding, but where Huyana tended toward the delicate, Deimos was robust, virile. Would her touch bring him any comfort? Huyana did not know - she did not know many things; it shamed her.
She tilted her face upwards to reach his ear, the water sliding off her shoulders as they rose above the surface. "Remember victory," Huyana murmured, daring to linger close to him for a moment more, dying a little as she took in his smell.
Why am I here? Why am I encouraging him?
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[-joins PP anonymous-]
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
The General belonged to the ferocity of slinking, slithering bones, to the satanic reveries and raptures, to the conniving arches of instigating iniquities; a creature of his capacity, a monster of his machinations, couldn’t cease its infernal malevolence. Vicious, baleful animosities coiled into his lungs, festered and feasted within his licentious pulse, crawled from the waves and fingertips of his invocations, never gratified, satisfied, constantly consuming, devouring. To scrape away the edges of defeat, he’d drive to conquer again, unyielding, impenetrable, the deadly flame casting its wrathful shadow upon the world. He was Mephistopheles’s constant phoenix, the noxious, destructive ashes tethered together in a throng of wild, ferocious decadence, boiling, simmering, smoldering in the scintillating plumes of heathen grandeur. Lucifer’s raw magnum opus, never fully embellished until the tyrannical strings were pulled, blessings forgotten, ruined, abandoned, and the layers of bestial, ravenous puissance was lifted, released and relinquished along the earth. Torrential, turbulent, virulent and belligerent, tearing down the vivid creations of spun aspirations and harpsichord dreams, staining the passionate with savagery, annihilating the stalwart with ruthlessness, and even she, Huyana the raingirl, couldn’t strip the lacquered depths of his predatory immorality. Without carnivorous actions, without the beating hymn of war drumming in his ears, without the haunting tides of violence humming in his chest, he’d be an entirely different being, softened, muted, and diminished. What was a reaper without his scythe? What was a monster without his transgressions? What was a beast without his burden? No amount of prayers for his body, for his soul, for his enigma, could scratch away the condemnation, the loathing, the abhorrence painted across his flesh. For a moment, sinking against the warmth of the hot springs, Deimos thought she’d attempt to pluck the devil on his breath, seal away the irreverence, the unholy, the selfish, merciless chords of his seditious outline, wash away each wicked, treacherous deed stained and scarred along his skin – but she spoke no word of deliverance. No preaching, no devout pleas, no intercessions of sacrificial virtues, pleasant divinities, harmonies, melodies, chants for the forsaken, and he realized she knew him better than most, droplets capturing the tangible boleros of his motions, his movements, and his motives. She sanctioned his heartless ventures, asked naught of his actions, and never tried to change, alter, or morph his ambitions. Was this disappointing to her, to pervade and surround herself with an unwavering behemoth, with death, with demise? Had she merely concocted another version of silent, calm, composed acceptance? Become settled in the dark debauchery of their livelihoods?
Diabolical and avaricious, the Reaper pushed further into her form, caressed the distinct hues of blue and black blinding his sight, greedily, covetously, stole her sinew for himself. He acquired her scent, her touch, her brushstrokes, like naught he’d committed before, gently, the rippling cascade of breath ghosting over skin, sin singing an exotic murmur, a silent croon, a barbaric whisper. He carved his possession over her body amongst the close, intertwined darkness, sought not to destroy, but to empower, absorbing the radiance of her stature, recoiling and distorting it so that it was his, his, his. Would she mind if she became haunted, became tainted, became blemished from the quiet, sordid delusion of his piercing villainy? He shuddered beneath the warmth of her stroke against his jaw, forgetting who thrummed and hummed with the most prowess, the most authority, the most control in the Stygian veil. Who prevailed and who surrendered? Submerged, drowned, he didn’t tell her any of his thoughts, filled with desolation, loneliness, the bitter decay and disrepair of a forlorn soul destroying absolution. Instead, he reveled in the sensation of feeling another, swayed into the depths of her cascading rivulet, sighed, breathed, hissed deeper into her seraphic allures, her nymph enchantments, controlled the fine temptation of annihilation as it beat against his veins. His argent body leaned, sought her form, closer, closer, until each vice, each disgrace, seemed to become subsumed by her presence, by her grace, and he was permitted to forget devilry, heresy, and burning kingdoms down until they were aching facets of rubble, splintered and decayed. Was this reassurance, comfort, assuaging gestures, all the sensations he’d missed, consigned to oblivion? Was this what had been renounced upon his first birthday, disappearing into the midst alongside his innocence, morality and decency? Airy sentiments floated along his statue, fluttering, flickering, glowing, distinct and clear, light and cordial, incited and invoked the clamor of his seething doldrums; he’d tasted victory, he’d relished triumph, but had his herd? Had his empire, with its perilous peaks and glacial walls, swallowed the glory of destruction? Musing, he dragged his teeth over the shell of her ear, grinding and clenching the friction of its wild, beating pulse, savoring, relishing the torment of her ambrosia, tearing against the armor of her past, of her fantasies, of her dreams, trampled and crushed. The monster’s voice resonated across her flesh, fleeting reverberations of a deadly, infernal snare, nipping, grating, ghostly severity, the hot knife, the carving, sumptuous, scintillating bayonet. “What do you think of?” Deimos drew back thereafter, conquered the absent, the bereft nature of sin against skin, puncturing stare riveted, fixated, upon the answers in her expression, in her features, in her inhalation, tracing the incisions he’d concocted, eager to revel in the response, in the temptation, in the inclinations and enticements. Of me?
| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
They were naught but animals, beasts of blood and flesh and bone; creatures of desire and lust, unable to stave away their very carnality. They were a single dark mass beneath dim starlight - was it loneliness that brought them together, or something else entirely? Was it destiny, fate, serendipity - a divine intervention? Were the stars aligned, was there witchery in the water, or was this entire line of thinking a farce? Maybe it wasn't any sort of magic, but simple chance; the brush of skin, the secret meeting of eyes; animal attraction.
But he was against every one of her ideals, an antagonist to her morals. Why did his touch cause her to quiver, why did her gut writhe and twist in her belly?
He shuddered under her gentle caress. The reaper was no god of war, no death machine; he was hair and flesh, tripe and sinew. She did not wither at his barest touch, was not damned as they exchanged warmth. He aspired and dreamed and inhaled and exhaled - he was no stone cold monster, and she was no frigid rain goddess, just a girl with crushed wings, and he a swarthy soldier with sapphire eyes and a red heart. This was what the world came down to: there were no monsters, only lies and tears, joy and laughter. There was pain, too, but there was also unending happiness, and she was glad for that.
Deimos towered over her delicate form, but he did not impose, did not hold her against her will. They were as close as any two living things could be, brittle hearts thrown to the wind; inhibitions rebuffed; worries forgotten, tossed away to the earth to rot and decay. His ivory teeth brushed against the velvet of her ear, and she wondered if he could taste the frantic beating of her heart, feel blood whirling like the Bora beneath the fine lining of her fur. She was at her most vulnerable; she was unguarded, susceptible - everything was borne out before him. He could thieve and consume and ravage her all he wanted, but she knew he wouldn't. Against everything that had been taught to her, she trusted him, this reaper, this destroyer. This was no fable, no fairytale; she was not the beauty, the untouchable princess, and he was no prince, no beast. They were just two mortals with mortal lifespans and mortal hearts, and who was to judge them for mistakes or deviations or desires?
What do you think of? he wondered, watching her with that gaze that suddenly made her knees weak and made her head spin, but it also cleared her mind, brought her back to earth. He knew the answer - she could see it scrawled across his face, softening his marble features. She would humor him by echoing his thoughts - it was only fair. Huyana bit her lip with false contemplation. The roan extended her neck, letting her nose run across his mane, lipping the thick hair. She let the question settle into silence, let the answer bleed through her quiet touch and slow breaths.
"You," she answered quietly, retracting her face to watch him - her eyes dancing between his, flickering from one jewel-bright eye to the other. Her lips drew into a gentle smile, a knowing smile, quiet and expectant.
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Constantly consuming, ceaselessly corrupting, an echo of travesties, debauchery and fleshly, corporeal binding punctured and pierced, bonds forged on quiet, halting, yielding precipice; not the embarking of crusades or campaigns, but always the end results, the failures, the defeats, the crumbled empires. The solitude of a soldier’s faltering strides, the harmonious plunge of an angel’s knife, the poignant, eloquent edge of an aching cutlass, tuned and turned into ghostly labors, smoky labyrinths, rotten and ruined. The blinding rift of collapsed schemes, dissolute indulgences, and conspired impulsivities burned into the scope of his stare, and too domineering, too indomitable, too formidable, the General dared not look away. Would he be blinded by the altered circumstances, the sweeping hands of a fettered seraph’s grasp, filtered and withered away into a chasm of his unrelenting prowess, where the sinners murmured about their errors, their mistakes, the moments of escape passed by? Would he become some lowly heathen, crawling amongst the depths of creeping, slithering claws, where the earth swallowed his innards, left him to be a disemboweled cretin amongst the dank, decrepit iniquities? Would he be weakened, to give into licentious inclinations, to seethe and simmer, bubble and boil, sapped, enervated, stolen and sapped into a diluted, diminished monster? Should he balk, should he flee, should he retreat into the ashy web of shadows and darkness, forgo charismatic chances and veritable virtue? If he gave in, was he another rancorous fool, drunken and drugged, dragged and drained, across the chains of attachments, endearments, flickering intimacies smoldering, seething, searing over flesh, over mouth, over tongue, until the coals scarred him into brittle ash? If he offered everything of his prowess, the brawn, the power of his pernicious necromancy, the virility of his unreachable existence, of his stony, rigid, unwavering figure, would there be naught left of his unattainable soul – demonic, imperious detachment procured, obtained, acquired.
Or would he sink into the embrace of these munitions and be empowered by them? Would the predacious slate of his unholy possession, of his finessed forbidding, of his antagonistic prose and poise swallow the unforgiving reel of annihilation, heedlessly trap each gleam of her virtue, render it calloused, renounced, abandoned and relinquished, all for his feral, fierce havoc to lick, relish? Would he claim each passing tide of her mellifluous regret, push and pull until it bowed under his meticulous, bestial obliteration, kindle harpsichord raptures over the fires of avaricious abhorrence, Tartarean guile, serrated anarchy? He could stand and analyze the enveloping veil of intrigues and ruses sparking against his ethereal ruin, his decadent desolation, but the truth rumbled along his chest, netted and clasped verity between the glacial fixtures of his heart and the overwhelming, minatory enticement scorching, charring, singeing its intertwining embers into the shambles of his forlorn boughs; he was comfortable. He was secure. He was locked in Huyana’s presence as a piercing pariah, and made no move to vanish, disappear, in the wake of her tenderness, in the gentle, enveloping clutch and caress of repose. He trusted, he relied, he built credence and conviction in the ruin of his reticent, rapier chords, of devoured discord and impending malice, allowed his eyes to close over the touch of her humility, the raw, unwinding caress of her finesse, her grace, her enchantments until she engulfed his sinister terror and filled each ferocious layer with precious sentiments, with sanctity, with deliverance. Sedition and insurrection preyed, heathen strokes crooned, and the ravenous predilection of his iniquitous strife brewed the strangest incantation throughout his lungs, along his chest, into his vocals, until it followed on a wild exhalation, on her silly assertion of her thoughts stained and mottled with his sinister, severe, deadly existence.
The Reaper laughed, permitted the rough bark to swell and burst into the sumptuous, midnight air as he opened his nefarious stare, concentrated on the unique sound bleeding from his larynx like a grating rupture of abandoned candor and humor. He’d forgotten the last time he’d expressed amusement, the last moments where he’d touched upon anything comical, besides the unwinding of foolish souls, the grinding friction of murder and mayhem, and the notion almost surprised him. His lips cracked into a vicious smile, then dimmed all over again as he remembered the query he’d fostered, stare traversing and meandering back to the shadowed peaks so that he may relish the moment a little longer, place it in between the memories of family, of heritage, of unbroken impressions and recollections not soiled, not sundered, by the fall of a child, the rise of a darkened scion. Deimos absorbed her touch, her caress, leaned upon it as a predacious fiend, glorified and enhanced in his monstrous reign by the forgotten grandeur of immorality, tender scopes of ignored, disregarded mercilessness. If he ever granted clemency, it was to this creature, one of rain, one of droplets, one of all the endless regrets drowned in the wake of her perilous cascades, martyr to the sea and diamond to the ocean; he the restless Ares, she the tranquil nymph. Pressing closer, he leaned towards the itch, the tear, the ravished seam of his careful stitching, consigned the fabric of his stinging maelstroms, inveigling iniquities, potent puissance, to the feverish, amatory whisper dragged over her ear, ghosting along her brow, a sumptuous, sensual breath mingling with the moon’s clarity, the amusement tangled in his stare. “Foolish.” Unwise, to give yourself away to me, for me to give myself over to you.
| Aurora Basin Scholar |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15 hands :: 7 years Buff: NOVICE |
| Krazie |
He laughed.
It began with the twisting of lips and the crinkling of eyes - if it wasn't so lovely a sight, Huyana might have thought it foreign on such a marmoreal face. The sound rode through the moonlight on pale wings, and the girl's lips could not help but twist into amusement as well, and it showed in her face, in her gaze. If a stranger were to see them at this exact moment, they might think the pair carelessly lighthearted, devoid of any cares or worries. Did she feel that way around him, this sapphire-eyed general? No, but his presence certainly lessened the pain of living, let her forget her qualms for just a moment, and maybe that was better than any cure; for what is life without pain or doubt or misery? It would be foolish to resign all these emotions as real and important as happiness and joy and love - it would be foolish to abdicate them in the presence of any one being, for if you held someone dearly, wouldn't it be unfair to them to withhold any one part of yourself, even if it were dark and terrible?
He leaned into her, casting a gentle, ardent breath, amusement dancing in his eyes. His soft touch electrified her, sent chills down her spine. She watched him from beneath dark lashes, half-lidded gaze following him carefully. Foolish, the Reaper said, causing the corners of her lips to twist upwards wryly; a sudden boldness was kindled in her face, in her gaze. She drew back momentarily, tantalizingly out of reach, water swirling around her body. "Is it?" she queried, her eyes wandered across his body on dancer's legs, absorbing every angle and curve of his, tracing the edges of muscles as a critic studies masterworks - but in their intentness, they were distant, his form an excuse for her mind to meander away. They returned to his gaze, pensive, sober, but brimming with something else, something softer, like the first rains of spring. What am I but foolish?
Dark legs ventured forwards once more, sloshing through the water as if they were made for it - and maybe they were - maybe she was a water nymph cast in the shell of the land-bound, doomed to wander the earth instead of the seas. Was she damned? Would she always be damned to sadness and disappointment and misery and regret? Was it foolish to consign herself to this General, this destroyer of worlds, before she could ever forgive herself? Lips barely brushed over the taut sinew of his neck, daring to find scabs, to follow scars. Was this how warriors announced their life - by wearing it proudly on their hides; a map of battles won and lost, foes defeated, spars completed? Was this how they were identified among themselves - by cuts in their flesh? But what about the remainder of their lives - how could you learn about their formative years - their mother, their father, their brothers - things far more important than victory or loss.
Vaguely, she wondered if her own father had maps cut into the dapples which bloomed along his sides, or if her mother had them etched into the sterling of her coat. They had both been renown warriors - how strange it was that such a child was conceived from them. Maybe the Nightangel had seen the craving for peace in her child's eyes and rejected it immediately. Sadness weighted her chest, threatening to pull it down - how despicable it was to have left her own blood like that, shivering in the rain. Nepdon had stayed, if for a small while, but soon relinquished her as well; Huyana had been raised lovelessly by Sylvana's Lightning Queen and had run away shortly after being weaned.
How could she ever love if she was cast away like stray flotsam?
Was she ready to strip herself bare for this general, to let him count her ribs before finding her heart?
The roan buried her face into his mane. "Deimos," she murmured, repeating his name a thousand times over in her head.
Maybe she just needed to learn to be.
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