the lady had followed the white general far into the land, to a place where the ground was damp
and twigs attempted to stick to her long tail, and she raised it in
attempts to avoid dirtying her apparel in any way. she was not built for this
muck, she was meant for paved roads and the scent of flowers giving her a sweet
lullaby, not a junk-yard of various elements. she was not a flea-bag, a mutt
that would roll in the dirt and laugh at it's own mess.

her lips curled at the taste in her mouth and nostrils,
a stench that rose from the liquid.
the white general told her of what monster's lurked
in the depths, and she treaded with elegantly placed
steps. she did not wish for a ghoul or a vengeful ghast to drag
her into the depths, and she gazed towards the depths,
with a lack of fear,
but a deep respect. if what he said was true,
she was intruding in their land, and she would not wish to further
anger the restless souls.
"i.. understand, white general, and will not pass judgment on your homeland
yet. let my words remain to be spoken."

the white general called for the asylum, for the people,
and she stood next to him,
with swishing tail and sharp orbs, to gaze into the depths with a even stare.
she raised her dome in a attempt to keep her regal appearance,
for she would look well in front of possible rulers, would not look as a
creature that had come bellowing from the muddied streets in search of
food and rest. no, circuta would be as her home had taught her to be,
a mystique of grace and power.

what circuta liked least about this land, however, was that
she could not hear the wind through gnarled trees
that dug into the watery graves. It did not whisper it's voice to her on this darkening day.
she sighed a forlorn tune to the silence, and hoped the wind had told her
the correct path to turn down, indeed.

they come as ants do for a fresh meal, bodies and ships
sail from the darkness and breathe their wicked songs, demented
and crazed songbirds in hope of the sun again.
she sees many. and so she will recount them, in order.

the first one the wind sends her is a jester, she screams authority,
and the dark lady surely knows that this must be the queen. a queen, she changes,
as she remembers the white general mentioning two leaders, not one, singular.
the jester queen, she thinks, and almost cackles at the mental lyrics. but the jester
queen is gorgeous, her glass weaponry protrudes from her forehead, and her likes
and respect for this mare rocket to the heavens. she is a horned one, she is! and she is a queen,
and that makes it all the better.

she dips her frame in respect for the jester queen, forcing her
nostrils not to wrinkle at the unpleasant smell of the earth below.
when she rises again,
she addresses her before Arlo.
it is not lengthy, for she can understand when one wishes
not to speak directly with her, merely a statement of acknowledgment
to her rankings.
"my queen."
she whispers, in greetings.

the second she sees is but a young one, with wings of that of a bird,
and the shiny golden coat of a beetle. she comes with a smile upon
her maw, going openly up to the jester queen, and she hears the jester's
name upon the songbirds maw. seele, she says in her mind, tasting the name.
it fits.

she has a canine with her.
though, she notes, it does not look like
a regular beast.
"little songbird, greetings."
her lyrics are soft and gentle in directs to the young creation,
for although the wings at her back may be a disappointment,
she is still a child.

and then comes a ungraceful one, without that of weaponry
or wings, and yet they seem crazed. they bellow into the air before
crashing into the open, they are almost the same as
the white general, and yet she feels her elegant bodice
press closer to the cloudy flesh of the brute. it is automatic. and though she feels
distaste at the closeness, she feels a tad bit safer from the crazed brute.
his orbs are clouded.
he is no different. but he is special, too. a beast.
plaguebearer.

but she has no time to respond to him, for another comes,
this ant comes elegantly from the shadows, her mane that of
red wine, and her blue orbs that of the clear blue sky,
or the endless oceans. she gives a small smile
to the jester queen, and to the little songbird,
before resting on her.

she can see the new one is judging her, appraising
her with the looks of one who may recruit a warrior to the
army, and she notes that this must also be the second commander.
vermillion. she is the vermillion goddess.
and she repeats what she did in response to the jester queen,
she bows before the goddess, again, forcing herself not
to gag at the scents rising from the putrid earth.
but she does it, somehow, and rises herself again, indigo orbs
gazing at the vermillion one.
she speaks, lyrics gentle, almost kind.
she asks her her name, such a simple question,
and she replies in a equally soft, but respectful tone.
"my name, vermillion goddess? water hemlock, goddess. i am circuta."

and then the next two arrive in short succession of one another.
the first is a horned one, and again, she notes this with
no small degree of satisfaction.
this one is dark, her apparel not so vast from her own,
but what marks her as a specialty dish is that she has not one
weaponry, but two, long antlers that gleam
dangerously in the dim moonlight. she has the appearance
of one who is used to war, carnage, and she deems her the war goddess
in appropriation. she is covered in mud, and this helps
none her appearance of one that has just come from a battlefield.
she asks who she is,
and the dark lady hesitates to respond. she is not addressing her,
and it is not the correct way to respond if she were to
interrupt. and yet, then again, who was to respect her here,
if she shrivels away as a limp mouse, ready for the catching?

no, she knows they won't,
and so she speaks, directing her night sky
orbs unto the muddied one.
"circuta, war goddess, is my chosen name. it is a pleasure." she speaks her words
still in respect, she is not rude.
and it is in such that she speaks no further
when the war goddess directs her attention at the plaguebringer.

the last is a moon mistress, silvery and almost glowing in the light
from above. she does not speak, so she does not direct her attention towards her.
she simply gazes at her for a second,
before switching back to the queen and the vermillion goddess,
and she continues to press her black apparel against the white general,
hoping he will continue from here.

@[Arlo] @[Seele] @[Amara] @[Oxy] @[Eris] @[Agrona] @[Sonya]
[ Posting Circuta first, instead of Arlo with Stephy's permisson ]

His eyes have adjusted to the dimly lit, ghastly marsh; Skywalker moves carefully among the shadows and vines, taking great care where he places his feet. He is a fledgling waif among the dark, twisted roots and things that reside in this marsh, so his going is slow and thoughtful, still. But he moves nonetheless – so far he has only met a surly mare in these marshes and the slow passing of time has urged him to unearth additional company. He heads towards the sound of voices and sloshing, the gloomy marshland has held him starved for everything else but silence and he knows that he must gain the acceptance of his herdmates if he wishes for his ambitions to survive in the midst of rot and deluded minds.

They will know him, in due time, for his capability. But Skywalker has never been a friend of patience and he has long since made the decision not to wait idly in the shadows. As he walks the mud stains his legs; it is numbing cold and somehow refreshing. Gradually, the voices are growing louder and he knows that they are not some echoes in his head; this sudden rift in the sepulchral silence draws him like a fly to the stench of a corpse. And there they are, all strangers huddled in the eerie stillness that this graveyard provides, all manners and shapes and Skywalker finds himself probably the most unremarkable of them all. He has not made out any of their previous conversation and has no questions to answer; instead he stands quietly with his wintry eyes moving to each one in turn. Wings and horns and antlers, he thinks and wonders at how well any of them would fare against him in a battle, his obvious disadvantage disregarded. Skywalker knows his worth and he is anything but anxious about his feral expertise in the art he feverishly has taken for himself. Though of thin build and slanting shoulders, Skywalker is a warrior and he decides that none of these said lunatics will be able to best him, the assumption fuelled by his arrogance. He relaxes and does not mind the fact that he does not know who he should address first. Eris (though he does not know her name) is the first and only face he recognizes and he concludes that it is best to acknowledge the freckly, blood-haired mare first. This he does with a simple nod and a thin, humorless smile. He looks at the pale stallion who seems to hold everyone’s attention, then the mare he has in tow, who seems to be as unfamiliar to this place as himself. From there Skywalker’s eyes move on to the antlered mare with the strange marking on her forehead: he wonders at the meaning of it, if there is any. Next to fall under his sweeping, hard gaze is the monolithic brute with a strange pouch attached to his shoulder – Skywalker lingers for a moment, that strange, dazed quality of his eyes worries the black stallion. Finally, he proceeds, to a mare of wings and spun gold (he does not see her companion) and a mare that blends easily into the inky backdrop standing next to her. A horn that seems made of glass? How easily will it break?

“I am Skywalker,” he finally offers them all and for a moment his terrible pride seems less edgy, more humbled, “I am a warrior who wishes to join your ranks,” he concludes flatly and thinks to himself that there is no good way to make a first impression in a situation like this.

S K Y W A L K E R.

Eris
Arlo
Circuta
Agrona
Seele
Oxy
Amara

OOC: Sorry for crappy post and butting in, I thought it was a good way to meet everyone. And sorry if I forgot someone.

They take turns speaking, exchanging useless information and bartering with identities, some demands are made and Skywalker finds himself amidst it all, bored already. He is efficient with his time, has always been, and this lazy manner in which they acquaint themselves with each other settles on his shoulders, an aggravating itch. They should have better things to occupy themselves with, he thinks sullenly as the pouch-carrying Oxy dawdles in petty hostilities. But he remains quiet and his face does not bear testimony of his disapproval. Instead he glances at the Pegasus huddling in the shadow of the glass-horned mare, he lingers with her for a moment, as if he were a wolf of slathering jaws made aware of it’s prey. The moment, however, is brief and his attention soon shifts to the mare that is addressing him – he ignores the rest of their company; while she has not given him her name she has betrayed her authority by the simple whim of her demand. He narrows his eyes, fixating her in the stinking dark, and they are like rain falling slowly. Then follows another smile: a mockery of the sentiment it is supposed to convey. “I am not so much tortured,” he answers coolly and raises his ugly head to a proud, haughty inclination without ever releasing her gaze, “as I am obsessed.”

He does not care to explain further, as he doubts that any of them would truly understand the fever that constantly haunts him, the desire that he can never abandon, the lack of sleep, the hunger and the constancy of his irrationale. How could they possibly begin to fathom the immensity of his sickness; that fearful ambition turned into murderous plight – that godforsaken thing that never relinquishes its steely grip around his throat? No, they will not understand, and nor will they want to when they realize that whatever it is that drives him relentlessly onwards is the selfsame thing that, in time, will bring them glory, supremacy, irrevocability.

Skywalker, terrible engine of death and pestilence, is come unto them, a messiah.

S K Y W A L K E R.