09-21-2015, 03:40 PM
[ok friends, so here's a super power fight! anyone can join, but be aware that injuries may occur and no one is completely immune to anything. You can bow out or jump in at any time, so long as the thread is active. let's be creative and imaginative and have some fun with this!]
Bel should be sore at losing his challenge, but when he thinks about it, the thought of having to take care of a bunch of mares (again) is just so… unappealing at the moment. And let’s be honest, he fucks around for the fun of it, not because he actually wants to do something. He’s a lazy asshole who gets his rocks off by torturing others (for the most part), and playing with his ice powers. Just knowing the extent of what he can do is enough. Sometimes. Other times (like now), he’s feeling another sort of itch, and it’s the kind that needs an cold, cold touch.
Good Lord, when you think about it, Belgarath has really mellowed as he’s aged. There used to be a time when he was a go-getter and held a rank in the Chamber. He might be able to be persuaded to do something like that again, but there would have to be something particularly juicy in it for him – succulent and moist and dripping in sweet, sweet nectar – the kind of thing that would dribble juice down his chin when he bites into it. The kind of thing that makes people move to the tropics, or even just SoCal for. He doesn’t have anything particular in mind at the moment, but he’ll know it when he hears it. Could be oranges or peaches or mangoes. Could be tan women in barely-there bikinis. But what does a horse know of those things?
Mostly just for the hell of it, and because winter is coming, Belgarath stands at the fringe of the Meadow, under the watchful eye of half-naked branches and browning leaves. The air around him cools dramatically as his glacially blue eyes wander over the bums and vagabonds. Technically, he is one of them. But he could hardly be lumped together with the rest of them. And to prove that he not to be lumped in with one of them, a resounding, thunderous CRACK! rips across the Meadow, as the ground beneath him splits, and ice rapidly rises, pushing him onto an elevated ice dais, three times as high as himself. His footing is sure, for the ice is as much a part of him as his blood is. With the ice comes fear and distress and all of those fun things that demons like to pull with when they rise from those various circles of hell.
Winter is coming. Eh, scratch that. Winter has come early.
The dappled warhorse leers and looms from on high, enjoying the stares and looks of confusion and fear. But as this is Beqanna, there will surely be some do-gooder who will try to challenge him – or even better, someone who wants to play along. So let’s play King of the Castle, shall we?
May the best – and strongest – horse win.
Bel should be sore at losing his challenge, but when he thinks about it, the thought of having to take care of a bunch of mares (again) is just so… unappealing at the moment. And let’s be honest, he fucks around for the fun of it, not because he actually wants to do something. He’s a lazy asshole who gets his rocks off by torturing others (for the most part), and playing with his ice powers. Just knowing the extent of what he can do is enough. Sometimes. Other times (like now), he’s feeling another sort of itch, and it’s the kind that needs an cold, cold touch.
Good Lord, when you think about it, Belgarath has really mellowed as he’s aged. There used to be a time when he was a go-getter and held a rank in the Chamber. He might be able to be persuaded to do something like that again, but there would have to be something particularly juicy in it for him – succulent and moist and dripping in sweet, sweet nectar – the kind of thing that would dribble juice down his chin when he bites into it. The kind of thing that makes people move to the tropics, or even just SoCal for. He doesn’t have anything particular in mind at the moment, but he’ll know it when he hears it. Could be oranges or peaches or mangoes. Could be tan women in barely-there bikinis. But what does a horse know of those things?
Mostly just for the hell of it, and because winter is coming, Belgarath stands at the fringe of the Meadow, under the watchful eye of half-naked branches and browning leaves. The air around him cools dramatically as his glacially blue eyes wander over the bums and vagabonds. Technically, he is one of them. But he could hardly be lumped together with the rest of them. And to prove that he not to be lumped in with one of them, a resounding, thunderous CRACK! rips across the Meadow, as the ground beneath him splits, and ice rapidly rises, pushing him onto an elevated ice dais, three times as high as himself. His footing is sure, for the ice is as much a part of him as his blood is. With the ice comes fear and distress and all of those fun things that demons like to pull with when they rise from those various circles of hell.
Winter is coming. Eh, scratch that. Winter has come early.
The dappled warhorse leers and looms from on high, enjoying the stares and looks of confusion and fear. But as this is Beqanna, there will surely be some do-gooder who will try to challenge him – or even better, someone who wants to play along. So let’s play King of the Castle, shall we?
May the best – and strongest – horse win.