Failure lofted a haughty breath over their carcasses again and again, an unrelenting force of embarrassment, shame and humiliation. Like the loss of the Edge from seasons before, sieges and assaults ignited, burned, should have, could have, been a daunting, ruthless bombardment of brutality, savagery and nefarious munitions, desert walls and fortifications torn, a forest sundered to ravaged branches and ashes. They’d yearned, longed, desired masses of peace and harmony distorted, contorted into the cruel machinations of their gathered forces, ruined, obliterated, severed and ruptured, armies ripping and rippling upon a dais of war – virtues and repose forgotten, stomped, defeated. Instead, it was they who’d been soundly chased away, retreating into the particles of ice and air, heads low, tails tucked between hind legs like foolish, inept dogs. They’d been made to appear weak, foolish, mindless travesties snickering and smirking from the bitter winds with nothing to call upon but the audacity of their insurrections. A seditious splendor should have unraveled from their malicious chords, and all they were bestowed, delivered, condemned were the righteous sacrifices of those who finished their battles (and whom should be thusly rewarded), and the beasts felled into dunes or soil. Even their Lady, spouting raptures and reveries of annihilation and subjugation, couldn’t untangle her contemptuous threads long enough to finish her fray; a campaign doomed into Tartarean, cynical smirks and chiming laughter. Who was to take their threats, their treachery, their pernicious prowess seriously when they couldn’t enact their sinister convictions? Was it all unfounded arrogance, and no pride lingered in their hearts? No distinction for power, for malice, for menace?

Frustration bled into the General’s mind, sentiments varnished and lacquered with the searing, smoldering air of ire, wrath and discontent. It swarmed and wrapped around his veins, piqued across his muscles, until the undulating coils of his muscles longed to destroy his own patriots. These were his soldiers, his warriors, his creatures sworn to the depths of glaciers, peaks and valleys, and for some portion of the catastrophe, he felt responsible. Had he not asked the right individuals for the cause? Were they too altruistic, feeling, compassionate and benevolent for the opponents they snared, snagged and brutalized? Had they not been inspired to commit to the aforementioned deeds? Had he not trained them enough? Had he trusted their abilities too much, presumed and assumed their capabilities were beyond those displayed? Had they seen too many of their brethren falter, stumble, crushed into the floor, and decided to save face? Or had something else altered their cause, distracted them from the means of victory? What was more pressing than conquest and triumph? What more did he have to do to ensure their cooperation, participation in destruction? If the Reaper had been a more talkative creature, he may have concocted and composed a berating, cruel speech, shouted from the canopies of caverns and pinnacles, a dangerous, treacherous snake sinuously winding down their necks. Instead, he stood amidst the swelling darkness, villainously composed, features rendered into reticent marble, bearing the scars of his own successful duel, proud, dominating, supremacy in the Stygian shades, the piercing, puncturing slate of his stare turning to each individual summoned. Deimos, behemoth, monster, and commander of the Basin troops, growled one singular demand, and expected answers from the turbulent, mindless heat of their debacle. “Explain your abysmal performance.”



[A thread for those who defaulted in the Throat/Edge invasion.]

@[Psyche] @[Arah] @[Ulrik] @[Farenjer]

The engineer had fumed back to the Aurora Basin, fury building up with every step. He was normally quite a pleasant chap, lost in his own head. Ulrik's emotions rarely ventured past delightfully disturbed, but his hard-to-upset temper was still available at times. Now was one of those times. Watching the leader, the leader Mauja had left in charge, fall in battle, had been too much for him to handle. He already did not respect the mare for leaving to spawn Mauja's love child, and against his better judgement, Ulrik had given her a chance. She had screwed up in his eyes. He was done. Absolutely and utterly done.

As he walked through the thick snow, Ulrik's leonine tail flashed in brutal irritation around his legs, his body only somewhat beaten and bruised from the fight he had abandoned. His opponent had fought back after the stallion had turned to storm back here, and he had not seen it coming. For a few hours, he had been unconscious, which only served to further aggravate the already inflamed stallion.

Now, he rose the path into the valley, even though he was tempted to never return. Ulrik's ears were stuck to the crest of his neck, and the rhythm of his steps was pointed, fierce.

The general looked equally as angry, if only by the glint in his eyes that told him not to press. He was not even a part of this damn herd, but he had fought nonetheless - up until the point that his leader had fallen. Ulrik's bronze eyes glared brutally at the nearby mountains. When Deimos' words hit his ears, the stallion turned his gaze toward the gray. He had no quarrel with the general, but his words just might start one he did not intend to fight. The mind of a genius often crossed into madness and the laws of verbal engagement fell by the wayside. Kirchoff, able to feel the tension, stood at Ulrik's front legs. The tiny pup's silver eyes watched with curiosity.

"I have no reason to fight a losing battle," he replied, the deep, guttural tones of his voice even more raspy and harsh. The cruel, pointed accent was even more pronounced, almost making him difficult to understand. "Mauja disappeared. Psyche fell. Our leaders are weak." Ulrik did not care of Psyche heard. Let her know his opinion of him! Perhaps she should be knocked down from her throne, but Ulrik was not of this herd. He could not force his way into her place by challenge - and even so, he was an engineer, not a leader.

"Half of those you called to follow did not show to fight. The fighters of the Throat were lining up to step in. We were forced out before we even began, and when our.... fearless leader fell?" Ulrik snorted sarcastically, a vicious sneer on his face. "My magic is still fucking busted. I build for this herd, and for what? To fight in a war in which the leader is too weak to make it through?!" Ulrik's voice rose a fraction. The stallion, stomped a cloven hoof, eyes glazed in unharnessed rage.

"I am an engineer. I watch your prisoners. I create your prisons. I did so for Mauja, and for you." Ulrik stated to Deimos. "I do so for my species, but I will not follow a lackluster force into battle only to watch the queen fall." The stallion took a deep, sharp breath. "Should you need my services further, I will serve, but only for my species and for you, Deimos. My loyalties no longer extend beyond you and I."

A R A H

The call of her general made chills run down her spines. Had she expected it? Yes. Did she wish to face him? No. Still she swallowed her nevers and moved to face her master, the stallion she had disappointed. In a way she was kind of glad to have the chance to explain herself, try and get a chance to earn Deimos' respect again. The impersonator would do anything her asked of her, anything to feel comfortable in his presence again. She wanted his forgiveness badly, so she began to move and it wasn't too long before she was in front of him. her golden orbs looked over her trainer shamefully. "Deimos." She spoke softy, calling his attention to her, away from the dark unicorn and his hell hound companion. Not actually having a good excuse Arah picked her words carefully. It took a moment for the white mare to actually decide what she wanted to say. "I do not have an excuse, I just...people were falling all around me. I did not know what to do." Arah knew it would do no good pleading with him. After all she was the one who had failed him.

Her golden orbs rested on the ground, ashamed and unable to look him in the eye. The punishment was all she was interested in at the moment. For when he said the words and bade them to go away, she would and in time, prove herself to him again. Surely she was allowed one mistake, surely because of one, admittedly huge mistake, his view of her hadn't changed? So many questions swirled around her, maybe she wasn't going to answers for them. Right now the only thing that mattered was what the general was going to finish this meeting with. Would their punishment be something that she could handle? Or would this slip up cost her everything?

315 words.
Bleh. No muse. -_-

And a sun set to lay away your day to day fears

The shade dimly remembered returning to the Basin, defiance battling with shock, turbulent emotions displayed clearly on her maw. She might have won the fight... might have... but for that blasted skyrat and her flailing limbs. She had returned home numb and unfeeling, floating across the ground into a cave, counting her blessings that she did not encounter any wandering souls. There, she had slept, only to be repeatedly haunted by the sound of her horn snapping from her brow, the image of it quivering in the sand ingrained into her memory. It woke her once, twice, three times, and then she stopped counting; so when Deimos called, she was relieved to wake instead to his fury than her own shame.

She clambered down the side of the mountain, again battling against the nothing that lurked beneath the surface, striving to pull the old arrogance to the forefront of her persona. She failed. As she arrived in the clearing, she took note of those in attendance and waited. His demand fell on on her like a physical blow, though she did not wince. Instead, she stared at him lifelessly, no longer caring much about the little war that they had waged, and even less so about her performance in it. Were it up to her, she would retreat to her little cavern and attempt to forget all about her abysmal failure, but alas, it was not.

Responses were largely ignored, but Ulrik's blatant disregard for her condition caught her attention. Fury sparked briefly, but the newly kindled flame died seconds later as the numbness returned. What did she care what he thought of her? He wasn't of their herd anyway, and last time she checked, he still had all of his appendages. Who was he to judge her, when he could not stand his own in battle? At least he had emerged in one piece. The image of the horn in the sand flickered through her mind again, taunting her. Perhaps he was a better fighter than she; perhaps if she had done better, she would not be standing here, hornless, explaining herself to her General.

But she would not allow him the last word, oh no - that, she could not bear to do. But, Deimos first; he was, after all, superior to Ulrik and he, at least, had served her faithfully. "I will not provide excuses for you beyond the obvious," she told him. "But I was not the only one to fall. I was not the first, and I was not the last. So -" she turned then to Ulrik, mustering up a last defiant, hateful look. "If you find me so very wanting," she told him coldly, sweeping her gaze around the circle before returning it to him, holding her broken cranium proudly high. "Then consider yourself my replacement." And with that, she turned and walked away.

"Talk talk talk."

[OOC | Psyche out. DRAMAZ. WE HAS THEM.]

Abhorrent disdain sharpened the potent heresy in his mind, molded the corrupted fixtures in the blighted, pernicious abyss as he watched them trickle in, ashes in the fuming friction of their failure. An intoxicating blow, searing and rearing as fallen triumphs, plastered against flesh and sinew, brewed by the fermented whims of capricious assaults. Had he trained them to inconstant arms in the militia, charging, dodging, then fleeing into the dusk? Had he urged them to become invariable beasts in the horizon, promising, assuring, then rendering hostilities too much, turning away from the cruelties they’d yearned to unleash? Ulrik, maddened and incensed, had perhaps disappointed him the most – one so capable, one so proficient, adept and experienced, shouldn’t have faltered at the glimpse of a leader stumbling. It spoke of the mechanic’s rooted position and certitudes; when things became immeasurable, seemed impossible, he chose to retreat. Would they have been able to gauge a success, had the soldiers gathered not withered and decayed? Would they have been able to conquer, finally notch a triumph next to their names? Would they have shown the world their capabilities, their immoralities, their villainy and violence? And would he, the Reaper, the General, given the same circumstances, done the same? The answer rendered immediately in his cranium, no, for deep into the crux of his licentious creed, treachery, puncturing, lacerating, piercing the enemy was always the forefront of his mind, to ruthlessly guide his power into the dying shield of others, to witness them quickly taken into an quiet demise. The chilling, cold reverie of his stare turned to Ulrik, ears listening to the lashing of his words, towards Psyche, towards the might of nonexistent warriors. His caustic candor followed thereafter, glacial, bereft of feeling or sentiment, phrases dipped in the raw brutality of the battle past. “Your disappearance urged more to follow.” Deimos couldn’t have his patriots choosing to follow the road of retreat, couldn’t have them blindly thwarting each plan he’d calculated and concocted, ruined and obliterated. Their sole occupation was to listen to his command, and not the heralding, the call, of sanctum and serenity. Glory couldn’t be grasped with tails tucked between legs, merciful whimpers or gallant, valorous hearts. He appreciated the solemn of allegiance to him, and only him, but it held no worth if actions spoke louder than words. “I do not doubt your loyalty, but you must prove yourself again.”

The beast’s head inclined towards the others, Arah, Farenjer, and he only fixed the same reticent expression across his features, looked down upon their cowering bodies or their silent acceptance of errant behavior. Excuses given and bestowed, but none of them solidified in his membrane, foolish and inane, inept and idiotic, like witless babes playing battle upon their hilltops – the Basin had been slighted by their pledged, oath-ed citizens, and he wanted a vow, a guarantee, that these fatuous, cowardly actions would not take place again. He looked to each, uttered his decree in the glacial expanse of treachery and animosity. “You will not be permitted to engage in another Basin action until you secure victory in battle.” He refused to send those who lacked conviction, courage or bravery, to another ground they longed to ensnare. Victory couldn’t be taken when individuals, citizens and militants forgot their purpose, strived for only themselves – weren’t his actions always for them? Could they not follow suit?

Psyche’s appearance was a subsequent whirlwind of theatrics Deimos had no interest in participating in. He witnessed her sinuous grind of malice, of menace, of distaste and audacity burning across her lips, spouting and spitting venom, vitriol, towards the mechanic, for all the poison he’d sunk into her prowess and position. The Reaper had never pledged his full allegiance to the mare either, his distorted heart and loyalty sunk deep into the land, stretched into its icy chasms and held the decadence, the depravity, the danger, of its sentiments into the layers of his indifferent flesh. But he held no regard to unveiling his disappointments in her leadership, which had once been formidable, cogent, or unraveling the ghosts of her ineptitude again, not in front of their residents. The damage was done; Ulrik had already voiced his petulance and contempt, inflicting raw damage to the broken carcass, horn and all, upon the Lady. If she wished to prove her might, her dominance, she’d have to bear it again, show her capability for those who’d witnessed her fall. His narrowed stare flicked quickly to the engineer and disappearing femme (what was this – another retreat?), the cool trace of his voice dismissing the layers of exaggerated maiming over the scene. “Discuss this elsewhere.” If she were so willing, so eager, to be rid of them all, it’d be wise to commit actions in the depths of confidence, instead of exposing all the rusted, shattered and splintered remnants of her control, her power, to the public. She allowed emotions to command and sway her direction, and unless she changed and altered the ways of her performance, perhaps her words would ring true.

[To clear up any confusion:
In order to participate in any future Basin battles, campaigns, invasions, etc. Ulrik, Farenjer and Arah must complete a victorious spar. Defaults will not be counted.]