the Rift

[OPEN] But words can never hurt me

Phaedra the Opulent Posts: 343
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.3 :: 6 Buff: NOVICE
Stella :: Secretary Bird :: None Aud
'Cause even the stars they burn
Some even fall to the earth</style>

[Continuation from this thread - before the herd meeting]

Circe was saying something now - but it was of such minute importance that the golden girl blocked it out. Her vision swam with tears, distorting the small body in front of her. Points of starlight illuminated Stella's' brilliantly orangey-yellow face, but the avian companion's eyes remained firmly closed. As Stella's breath grew even more shallow, Phaedra realized that Circe hadn't moved. Was this really what the Grey had become? That one would attack another out of a few heated words, and then deny aid? It was true that Phaedra hardly knew the shadowmere but...but did family mean nothing to her? Phae found it harder than ever to believe, that it was Circe who had the nerve to question her honor.

Without turning back - not that Phaedra would have been able to identify Circe's magic even if she did see her strained and fixed body, she forced an answer out, through clenched teeth and moist eyes. "My apologies sugar, for thinking the warriors of this family had minds of their own to answer simple questions." With a snort, her lip curled upwards slightly as her grief for Stella was distorted into fury towards the dark's mare's continued lack of responsibility for her actions. "You are no warrior, Circe" Phaedra stated evenly, dropping her usual sugar in place for Circe's name. Her breath became ragged as she tried to restrain her anger, for Stella's sake if not her own. "A warrior does not attack their own family. Not over a question, regardless if you were the incorrect recipient of it."

She had wanted to say more - but the mare had clearly demonstrated that even the slightest provocation was enough to send her over the edge, so Phaedra clamped her teeth together with a click, refocusing upon Stella. If Circe was not going to get Apollo, then...She would have to find a way of getting him herself. Moving Stella's body, as crumpled as it seemed did not appear to be the wisest decision, but Phaedra couldn't imagine that Circe would be willing to watch over her, should Phae herself leave to find their painted leader. With an audible gulp, Phaedra tried to cradle the small body with her wings even further - thinking perhaps that she could simply lift her bonded and carry her, however awkwardly, to a safer place. As she reached under the small white body, Stella gave a bright trill of pain, sending her body into weak convulsions.

...Stella go light...

Her small voice cried out in Phaedra's mind. With a wide-eyed look of horror, Phaedra immediately pulled her wings back. Stella's body ceased to move all together, her chest rising and falling with an almost imperceptible movement. "Stella?" Phaedra whispered hesitantly, to which no reply was given.

"SSSSTELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" She suddenly screamed, her anguish forcefully raising the call high into the dark night. She screamed the name until her voice was reduced to sobs, as her wings once again wrapped protectively around the small figure.

@[Circe], @[Apollo]

Image Credits
 HP: 45.5

Circe Posts: 101
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE

……shut up.

It was a mental whine, an exhausted thought that Circe directed towards the shimmering Pegasus mare. Frozen in place as she was, Circe could feel the sheer force of weight leave her head and withers; it was an excruciatingly uncomfortable sensation, coupled with the vast amount of energy her magic was consuming. The trembling that came from the shadowmere became a tick for fatigue instead of a demonstration of her remorse. There was remorse there—but it was hard to manifest, especially after Phaedra’s heated words rent the air. Was there any point in arguing, any point in trying to rationalize with the flighty temptress?

In a heartbeat, Circe decided there wasn’t. “You’re right,” she said in a tired whisper, feeling the weight of gravity shift from her back, a sensation like being dragged from quick sand. Because, after all, Phaedra was indeed right. A warrior did not attack their own; Phaedra had proved that. The speckled Pegasus was not Circe’s kin. She failed to recognize the disrespect with which she handled the shadowmere. This was not about a mere question; if those thoughtless, embarrassing jibes had come from some stranger in the meadow, Circe wouldn’t have thought twice about it. They had come from someone who professed to be family, and it was there that the shame lie. The respect wasn’t there; the honor was lost.

Phaedra started her keening just as Circe’s knees melted from the weighted magic; all that was left to be freed was her hooves. It felt as though her feet were disconnected from the rest of her body; they were lead shoes, blocks of solid iron that refused to be budged. The sight of Phaedra trying to carry Stella in her clumsy feathers was almost laughably pathetic; no amusement lurched in Circe’s breast, however. Her heart was sick, her throat was distorted. The sight of the broken little bird afforded much more shame for the shadowmere than the Spy’s snarky words; this was an innocent caught in the crossfire of the passionate mares. Circe wouldn’t have changed her actions toward the brash mare—but she would’ve done anything in her power to keep her hoof from straying to the unfortunate bird.

But then Phaedra started her deplorable screeching, and Circe was compelled to try and take a step forward just to escape it, a step she didn’t succeed in making. Ears pinning, Circe screwed her eyes shut against the ruthlessness of Phaedra’s grief. It was annoying. It was suffocating; it was rending the shadowmere’s breast in two. “I’ll go,” she said through gritted teeth, a migraine already beginning to take root in her brain. Just shut up, by the Gods.

Once more, the sorceress tried to lift her hoof, and with what felt like a resounding pop, the tar-like bubble of her magic ceased to exist all together. Tiny tremors ran the length of her muscles; sweat began to pool in the crevices of her body; she could feel a pant pull at the air in her lungs. The magic took its toll well and truly on the shadowmere’s body, but Circe knew she was beholden to the tiny, shattered bird, if not to its obnoxious owner; as such, Circe beguiled her body into motion, springing into a bolt, tail lashing in the air as she sped deeper into the Foothills in search of the Merciful lord. Her forceful, scratchy voice was a bullet into the night.


Apollo the Merciful Posts: 251
Outcast atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 11 HP: 63.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Zola :: Black Cat :: None Sparrow

And how can you say that your truth is better than ours?
Shoulder to shoulder, now brother, we carry no arms

The stallion started, his head snapping upwards at the cry of his name. How many had garnered his attention like that recently? With harrowed cries of alarm and urgency? Each and every time, Apollo expected it to be one of his warriors bringing news of the inevitable; that there was an invasion in their midst. The threat was very real, but no matter how many times it seemed that he stressed such factors, very few of the Foothills herd seemed to do anything about it. It was as if they didn't understand the severity of the situation... And so when Circe's bellow shot out across the damnable night sky, Apollo felt his chest leap into his throat, blood turning to ice.

A sharp breath of air puffed from his nostrils, and giving it little thought the stallion pushed off from the earth into a swift canter, one hoof after the other, towards the sounds of the Executioners cry. Was something amiss? Was it an invasion? An outsider? Or was someone hurt? It was hard to tell anymore. Defense or offense, Apollo seemed to be shouldering it all... And yet someone had to do it, to see their herd safe.

"Circe?!" Apollo's cry was strained as he spotted the shadowmere, who looked far from her calm and reserved self. While the black and white overo had not grown terribly close to Circe over their time together in the Grey, and ultimately the Foothills, he found her reliable, a constant pressure of familiarity to have around... It was like whenever she stood near, Apollo could breathe easier, knowing that with her came a sharp wit, and an even sharper bite. And so seeing her so shaken was unnerving. "Circe, what is it? Is all well?"

As the words slipped from his dark lips, the Merciful Chief pulled himself up short for a stop, slipping slightly in moisture of the Foothills grasses. Honey-brown orbs lingered upon the sorceress, waiting, hoping that all was well... But Circe was not the kind to cry wolf, and so he waited.

ooc: Sorry for the wait. <3

I Just Want You To Know Who I Am

Please Tag Apollo in All Posts!

Odd the doer of things Posts: 115
Administrator atk: 23 | def: 42 | dam: 108
Mare :: Other :: 5"2 :: 27 HP: 108 | Buff: badass
[You can skip Phae until you guys make it to her ^^]

Circe Posts: 101
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE

In another lifetime, the appearance of Apollo could’ve lightened Circe’s heart and eased her troubled mind; the Merciful wasn’t a fighter in the slightest, nor would his gentle nature appeal to the chaotic mare in regards to romance. He was a trustworthy soul, though; in the great abyss of changing tides and strange, misplaced attitudes of anger, Circe could count on Apollo for his steady heart and calm resolve. He was strong in many ways Circe remained weak; she liked this about him. And now, as she pulled up to the painted lord and slowed her pace, her sick heart began to bleed with the inevitable. She hated having to confess something so stupid and wrong.

*"Circe, what is it? Is all well?"*

“No,” she said bluntly, and her voice was tortured as she spoke, her eyes desperate as they settled on the Merciful. “I’ve committed a great wrong, Apollo. Please come fix my mistake; Stella needs you.” A gasp settled in the back of her throat as Stella was mentioned; her urgency clear, Circe turned away from him and threw her strenuous, exhausted body into overdrive, hoping the painted stud would follow suit.

The more her thoughts lingered on the broken little bird, the more despairing Circe became; the panic bubbled in her throat, rising like bile until she could actually taste the sour hint of her own fear. Yes—she feared for the bird’s demise. The memory of seasons past—of early snow and fallen warriors—loomed in her eyes, having escaped the vault of her resolve. There had been no saving her Callisto; her fate had been decided before she had taken her first tiny breath. If there was a chance, any chance at all, to keep Stella from knocking on Hades’ gates, Circe would take it gladly. For she didn’t need another inexorable death on her conscious; she didn’t need another lifeless corpse treading on her waking dreams, asking why, asking why.

Circe was done with nightmares.

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