03-01-2020, 01:08 AM
<div id="dreamy"><style type="text/css">.dreamy_container {background: transparent; width: 500px;border: 2px solid #8B8576; color: #8B8576; font: 14px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 15px;text-align: justify;box-shadow: inset 2 2 2px 2px #000;}.dreamy_name {text-align: center; color: #fff; font: 26px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding-top: 10px;padding-right: 10px;}.dreamy_quote {text-align: center; font-style: italic}</style><center><div class="dreamy_container">He looks beyond the black mare in front of him to the deepest edges of the cavern where something more interesting than her useless rambling can be heard shifting <I>just so</I>, and it is in that second that she attacks, suddenly stronger than he knows her to be. With blunted teeth she takes hold of him, crushing one ear while the other suddenly pins deep into his flying black mane.
<I>KEEEEEEEE!</I>
He screeches and kicks out with a taloned foreleg, balling his toes into a fist deep in the flesh of her shoulder, but he cannot deny her steady pull. The many creatures he has consumed fly at him in a fury, their rodent teeth plucking bits of flesh from his legs, but even as they do so he crushes them underfoot, hind legs stamping on the tiny bodies beneath until there is little more than a slurry of bone and blood slick against the rocky cavern floor. He skids on it when Hippogryph pulls him, her strength never wavering. He is desperate to bite her, yet holds stubbornly to the cool heart in his beak, unwilling to drop it to defend himself. Besides, she is dragging him exactly where he wants to go. He can feel the nearness of something too large to even comprehend, can feel a heart that beats but eludes his magic. He wonders what would happen if he simply stopped struggling against her, as it seems the dark mare's only purpose is to drag him ever forward to his intended destination, but the remaining fawns and rabbits still attack ferociously. He ends his attacks on the false Hippogryph, following her with his neck bent and lowered to the level of her mouth, following like a child that has been scolded, but for the others, there is no more mercy than before, only now his claws are red with their blood rather than the hers.
It seems a neverending parade, easily more than he could have killed in his few years - or perhaps they simply resurrect, again and again - and his own blood runs fire-bright down his legs, as pockmarked by bites as the glowing red floor is by the pooling acid that drips from above. The beasts cannot reach any farther than his elbow and only a single streak of smeared blood stains his cheek and twisted neck from Hippogryph's tight grip. Still, he finds himself feeling light-headed with a loss of blood that makes his vision fade and crackle, sparks of light closing in on the edges. A warm, tingling, flush builds beneath his amber eyes and over his cere, and he stumbles when she releases suddenly, the assault over as abruptly as it began.
There is little to see. He sways in the dim light, blinking stupidly, and watches the entire horde gather as one, almost melt together into a bloody chimera that limps and shudders and groans its way into the waiting mouth of the beast. Dreamscar cannot focus on the nightmare creature, there is a sense of a great toothed mouth - so many mouths, all hungry and grinning - of tentacles and eyes and horns. It makes him dizzy to try and he almost falls but is instead swept up into a gentle arc by writhing tentacles that pull him so close to the blurry beast that his head feels like cracking and blood wells up in his eyes and nostrils and ears.
<I>Love.</I>
There is something of love that he feels and it comes with a rubberband snap that severs his connection to the true Hippogryph, somewhere distant - so distant! - but the mimic does not concern himself with that when something greater holds him in its grasp. Onto one deft tentacle he drops the offering of the heart he stole and has carried all this time, that he has brought <I>here</I> for <I>It</I>. It is not meant to save him, there was never any saving Dreamscar, not from that very first moment when his eyes opened upon his mother's hatred, but the young stallion is also not filled with fear or righteousness or self pity. He feels no regret for the deaths of others, he does not regret the forced slavery of his mother, or the scars he has scratched and pecked into her body, and when he is set down again, he purrs softly into the echoing cavern and approaches the Star whose shape makes him ill.
He does <I>not</I> walk into its mouth, rather sidesteps the tongue clumsily to rub cat-like against the lowered cheek. Feathers and bone knit together and though he can see them only from the ragged corners of his vision, he can feel them easily enough. His beak rubs against bone and with a trill, he begins preening what fetid feathers he can reach, cleansing them of the acid that drips down upon them, of the blood and slime and gore, and breaking open the pinfeathers buried beneath. It is a simple thing, to worship at the altar of such a being, and Dreamscar finds nothing in it of fear or disgust, only a love that pulses more strongly with each touch, and he knows that if this is how Hippogryph felt in her bonds to him then it was no terrible thing for her, no matter what great scores he left upon her body. She was his to do with as he pleased for as long as he wished to keep her enthralled.
It is a pleasant notion.
Time passes impossibly, is it hours, days, or mere seconds that he picks the rotting feathers clean? But they are eventually smooth again, the small patch he can reach, and the tentacles do not want preening, they pull away from the sharp tip of his beak despite his ability to be gentle when he wishes, and so there is only one last act of devotion, one that has been pressing heavily on his heart for some time, and he knows that it is time. Though still dizzy he leaps eagerly into the open maw, his claws careful not to scratch the rough surface of the tongue, and he reaches downward to press the curve of his beak to that shifting surfaces, flooding the beast with every ounce of his magic, the rolling sound of his trilling almost musical while crushing jaws press those glorious teeth together.
<I>R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ckxsht</I>
<div class="dreamy_name">Dreamscar</div><div class="dreamy_quote">Carnage x Hippogryph</div></div></center>
<I>KEEEEEEEE!</I>
He screeches and kicks out with a taloned foreleg, balling his toes into a fist deep in the flesh of her shoulder, but he cannot deny her steady pull. The many creatures he has consumed fly at him in a fury, their rodent teeth plucking bits of flesh from his legs, but even as they do so he crushes them underfoot, hind legs stamping on the tiny bodies beneath until there is little more than a slurry of bone and blood slick against the rocky cavern floor. He skids on it when Hippogryph pulls him, her strength never wavering. He is desperate to bite her, yet holds stubbornly to the cool heart in his beak, unwilling to drop it to defend himself. Besides, she is dragging him exactly where he wants to go. He can feel the nearness of something too large to even comprehend, can feel a heart that beats but eludes his magic. He wonders what would happen if he simply stopped struggling against her, as it seems the dark mare's only purpose is to drag him ever forward to his intended destination, but the remaining fawns and rabbits still attack ferociously. He ends his attacks on the false Hippogryph, following her with his neck bent and lowered to the level of her mouth, following like a child that has been scolded, but for the others, there is no more mercy than before, only now his claws are red with their blood rather than the hers.
It seems a neverending parade, easily more than he could have killed in his few years - or perhaps they simply resurrect, again and again - and his own blood runs fire-bright down his legs, as pockmarked by bites as the glowing red floor is by the pooling acid that drips from above. The beasts cannot reach any farther than his elbow and only a single streak of smeared blood stains his cheek and twisted neck from Hippogryph's tight grip. Still, he finds himself feeling light-headed with a loss of blood that makes his vision fade and crackle, sparks of light closing in on the edges. A warm, tingling, flush builds beneath his amber eyes and over his cere, and he stumbles when she releases suddenly, the assault over as abruptly as it began.
There is little to see. He sways in the dim light, blinking stupidly, and watches the entire horde gather as one, almost melt together into a bloody chimera that limps and shudders and groans its way into the waiting mouth of the beast. Dreamscar cannot focus on the nightmare creature, there is a sense of a great toothed mouth - so many mouths, all hungry and grinning - of tentacles and eyes and horns. It makes him dizzy to try and he almost falls but is instead swept up into a gentle arc by writhing tentacles that pull him so close to the blurry beast that his head feels like cracking and blood wells up in his eyes and nostrils and ears.
<I>Love.</I>
There is something of love that he feels and it comes with a rubberband snap that severs his connection to the true Hippogryph, somewhere distant - so distant! - but the mimic does not concern himself with that when something greater holds him in its grasp. Onto one deft tentacle he drops the offering of the heart he stole and has carried all this time, that he has brought <I>here</I> for <I>It</I>. It is not meant to save him, there was never any saving Dreamscar, not from that very first moment when his eyes opened upon his mother's hatred, but the young stallion is also not filled with fear or righteousness or self pity. He feels no regret for the deaths of others, he does not regret the forced slavery of his mother, or the scars he has scratched and pecked into her body, and when he is set down again, he purrs softly into the echoing cavern and approaches the Star whose shape makes him ill.
He does <I>not</I> walk into its mouth, rather sidesteps the tongue clumsily to rub cat-like against the lowered cheek. Feathers and bone knit together and though he can see them only from the ragged corners of his vision, he can feel them easily enough. His beak rubs against bone and with a trill, he begins preening what fetid feathers he can reach, cleansing them of the acid that drips down upon them, of the blood and slime and gore, and breaking open the pinfeathers buried beneath. It is a simple thing, to worship at the altar of such a being, and Dreamscar finds nothing in it of fear or disgust, only a love that pulses more strongly with each touch, and he knows that if this is how Hippogryph felt in her bonds to him then it was no terrible thing for her, no matter what great scores he left upon her body. She was his to do with as he pleased for as long as he wished to keep her enthralled.
It is a pleasant notion.
Time passes impossibly, is it hours, days, or mere seconds that he picks the rotting feathers clean? But they are eventually smooth again, the small patch he can reach, and the tentacles do not want preening, they pull away from the sharp tip of his beak despite his ability to be gentle when he wishes, and so there is only one last act of devotion, one that has been pressing heavily on his heart for some time, and he knows that it is time. Though still dizzy he leaps eagerly into the open maw, his claws careful not to scratch the rough surface of the tongue, and he reaches downward to press the curve of his beak to that shifting surfaces, flooding the beast with every ounce of his magic, the rolling sound of his trilling almost musical while crushing jaws press those glorious teeth together.
<I>R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ckxsht</I>
<div class="dreamy_name">Dreamscar</div><div class="dreamy_quote">Carnage x Hippogryph</div></div></center>