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then why'd it feel so good? - Starlace - 12-29-2019
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XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#00676771', endColorstr='#676771',GradientType=0 );}.starlace_message {position: relative;z-index: 10;width: 530px;border-radius: 10px;text-align: justify;padding: 15px;color: #040205;}.starlace_message p {padding: 10px;}.starlace_name {position: relative;z-index: 15;font: 48px 'Forum', serif;color: #353036;letter-spacing: 10px;text-transform: uppercase;text-shadow: 1px 1px 4px #6F7C84;}.starlace_quote {position: relative;z-index: 15;font: 16px 'Forum', serif;color: #353036;letter-spacing: 1px;text-align: center;}hr.style { overflow: visible; /* For IE */ padding: 0; border: none; border-top: medium double #333; color: #333; text-align: center;}</style><center><div class="starlace_container"><img src="https://cdnw.nickpic.host/rLCkw6.png" width="625px"><div class="starlace_gradient"></div><div class="starlace_message"><p class="starlace_quote">i can feel the flames on my lips; crimson blood on my skin</p><hr class="style" /><p> The summons comes with the new moon, on a night filled with clouds and whispers from the shadows. Their senses rouse them – or perhaps disturb their nocturnal wakefulness – the creak of bone, the tang of blood, the ache of a bruise. It fades, so quick it might have been a dream. A nightmare.Then it comes again, sharper, a cut across tender skin.
They blink, and when they open their eyes, it is to find the red Plains spread out around them. They are alone but for the howling wind and the smell of old blood, and they have been stripped bare.
Ahead of them are two monoliths, large pillars of stone. One – black as shadow – is carved with the shapes of many types of horn. The other – deep jade green – is covered with wings of every type.
They must choose one.
Which? And why?
</p><hr class="style" /></div><p class="starlace_name">Starlace</p></div></center>
<b>Rules</b>:
• You have been transported to the Plains. Describe your character being taken to the Plains, their reaction to losing all their traits (if they had any), and their choice between the black stone, which will give them any type of naturally-occurring horn(s) or the green stone, which will give them any type of natural occurring wings. Describe their reaction to getting their new trait
• One entry per player.
• There are no eliminations in this quest. Spelling/grammar/punctuation will be taken into account but it will largely be judged on your character’s ability to kick ass.
• Please include which (current) land your character is tied/loyal to, or if they’re not tied to a land at all. This can be within the post or as an ooc note.
• Failure to respond to a round risks temporary defects.
• <b>Entries are due Jan. 5 by 12:59 PM CST</b>.
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Luath - 12-31-2019
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Herr+Von+Muellerhoff|PT+Sans+Narrow' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .luath_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/CKVNVYbf/luath-bg.png'); width: 600px; min-height: 600px; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px #000; } .luath_container p { margin: 0; } .luath_image { position: relative; z-index: 5; width: 600px; } .luath_text { position: relative; z-index: 8; width: 520px; margin-top: 40px; margin-bottom: -200px; background: #000000b8; border: solid 10px #04010042; box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px #000; } .luath_message { z-index: 8; position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #54696d; padding: 30px; } .luath_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; font: 150px 'Herr Von Muellerho[/font][/size][/color][color=#000000][size=small][font=Arial]ff', cursive; color: #54696d; bottom: 40px; right: 100px; opacity: 0.9; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000; } .luath_quote { font: 11px 'PT Sans Narrow', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; background: #04010042; color: #54696d; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 2px; } </style> <center> <div class="luath_container"> <div class="luath_text"> <p class="luath_quote">sing for me, and I would forgive you</p> <p class="luath_message">Dreams underwater are always filtered through a blue haze; he lies in the shallows tucked alongside some bright coral that gives him the most disguise he is likely to ever get. His blue and red is still striking, but in the shadows you would have to look for him. When the first threads of the dream come, he twitches but does not stir. The tang of blood in his mouth is familiar, his diet being mostly carnivorous, the ache of bruises less so but still something he knows from pitting himself against the larger creatures of the deep sea. They pass like particularly violent dreams - but satisfying ones. A successful hunt, the hum of battle under his skin…
But though he is physical creature of strong fighting instincts, the sharper cut of true pain against his skin cannot be brushed aside as the kiss of dark dreams. He has faced nothing in his life he could not beat or flee from, after all; his esteemed sire had vanquished any nightmare creatures he had taunted that he could not shake himself. It wakes him and he blinks, expecting to see the undulating, soothing blues of his beloved ocean and jolts into true awareness when he is instead confronted by the dry red dirt of the plains. The edges of the his vision darken and he realizes with a start that he’s not breathing – so used to the movement of water over his gills, he has to force himself to gasp for air, jump-starting his body’s instinct to breath in and out.
He’s contorted into a position that he never could have achieved if he had lain down with four legs, and it takes him a moment to untangle the unfamiliar hind limbs and struggle to his feet. It will take a few steps to reclaim his land-legs, because he has been in the water too long. More of a shock is that he can feel the wind through the hair all across his body: he has no scales, no sharp teeth! Those he has always retained, whether he chose to dwell in land or sea. Automatically, Luath hates it. He has been a wild, feral creature since the day he first fell from his mother’s womb, and he doesn’t like the idea of being <i>helpless</i>.
The boy doesn’t mind the smell of blood, though the sound of the wind is somewhat overwhelming after the quiet of the sea. He looks left, and wanders a few steps closer to the black monolith to peer into the carvings, taking a moment to realize it’s covered in horns. Turning around to the green stone to his right, the shape of wings is much easier to distinguish – or at least more familiar, the memories of many nights spent curled beneath his father’s ebony feathers after Brennen had dragged him out of the ocean and insisted on a good night’s sleep. Something draws him to approach one, and he abandons the black horns for the green wings with barely a second thought. Wings to him had always meant safety and security; he strides up to the pillar and caresses the shape of a feathered carving.
There’s a sound, a feeling, and he rocks back from the pillar, startled, and then gives a little yelp and a sideways hop when there’s the briefest feeling of tearing flesh, a millisecond of blinding pain, and then there’s giant wings protruding from <i>his</i> shoulders, blue-boned and red-membraned dragon wings that remind him starkly of the fins he seems to have lost. The boy takes a couple of wobbly steps and jumps up into the air, clumsily beating the appendages to lift himself a few feet from the ground and then falls heavily back to the red earth. Turning his head to blink at the wings, he is reminded suddenly of something Brennen had often said after telling Luath and his twin about his many adventures: <i> ‘There’s always a price with magic. A danger,’</i> he’d been firm about his expectations that they never approach a quest or magic challenge without their eyes wide open, especially stern when Luath had insisted he was going to have great adventures like Brennen. <i> ‘Luthe, you’re as likely to get hurt as get something you want. More people fail than succeed.’</i>.
Brennen hadn’t said anything about what to do if you’d stumbled across a quest by accident, pulled in from a sound sleep and suddenly fundamentally changed from a water creature to an air creature. The famed warrior had always dove head deep into his experiences, fighting tooth and nail and on purpose. But, he’s always wondered what it would be like to fly like Brennen. Is it like swimming? Turning towards the expanse of dusty clay, he spreads the wings again and tries a running start this time, thundering across the flat ground back towards the black horn pillar and flapping the great heavy things until his feet leave the ground and then, he is flying, the pillars becoming rapidly miniature beneath him as he whoops his excitement.
</div> <div class="luath_name">luath</div> <img class="luath_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/SRKdtrCT/luath.png"> </div> </center>
Ooc: he has no kingdom allegiance right now
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Aten - 12-31-2019
There are many who say that the darkness is a welcoming presence, glad to offer those with tortured souls sanctuary by showing they are not alone. A haven, a never-ending void in the sky that struck fear into those who sought the presence of the light, those who were afraid to face the demons of their past that lingered within the cracks of their hearts like everlasting shadows...
"Knowing your own darkness, love... that can help you understand others better than you think..."
For all of the wise things she'd said, that was definitely one Aten had not come to fathom until he was grown. To this day, he still struggled with it too... despite his effort, the darkness inside others, it could still be so different... not like the night sky that followed the burning sun, cloaking the world in silence.
One could argue the stars in the sky made the night sky seemed different, but once again... those were the ones, who looked to the light... those, like the golden one... only saw darkness... the same darkness, every night... the same darkness, that lurked within his heart...
The same darkness that drove him to leave his family during the times when his demons began to creep up on him... lit the spark within him that was his now feral nature... ever since acquiring the gift...
Just like the sky, his gift had two sides... and though he tried... the feral nature, it would not be silenced...
And on this night, it seized control, following his run from his family. He would not be near them, could not be... he wouldn't let them see him like this.
His rage, his anger, it continued to heat his blood... he had many things to be angry about. He was calm, collected... a rational thinker... but that did not mean he could not be angry. He thought he still had reason to be; his leadership had been stripped away and handed to a younger stallion because of bloodlines... the one who had done so, a promise broken... whenever those memories resurfaced, the feral beast inside begged to be released...
And Aten only complied, to silence it... to squash it back down and keep it locked away, silent within him... to suffocate it's hold over him, like the night sky drowning the beautiful sounds of the world...
Tonight felt even darker, without the moon casting it's glow over the land. It's beauty was different... it's gorgeous gleam may dazzle many, but it's embrace was cold, unforgiving, not welcome to the daytime creatures who depended on the sun for guidance... in order to understand the moon, one had to work to understand oneself...
But Aten wasn't at that point yet. Too much anger still existed within his heart. So much that he could often hear the beast inside speaking to him, begging to be let out, to cause destruction... the claws he now bore scraped at the ground, creating lines in the earth's surface of increasing size to express his rage... his nostrils expelled steam instead of cold night air...
And his body temperature was rapidly rising. The voice was growing louder inside his head... screaming now, an otherworldly noise...
But other voices were here too, and Aten didn't think they were inside his head. It was different, this voice... it was a whisper, a call, as if something out there was singing a beautiful song, asking for the light in his heart to resurface...
The beast would not relax it's grip... it wanted to have some fun. But Aten could feel it was intrigued by the call too. It wanted to investigate, see if whatever was out there could provide entertainment. He had a thought... he would let the feral nature out, see where it took him... a backseat, see what he could understand of this darkness inside him now.
As he allowed the feral nature control, Aten felt his own mind slipping away. It was not an uncomfortable silence though... this was warm, like the flame inside him that burned when he wasn't angry. It welcomed him, encouraged his presence within his own mind, his conscience, to understand this new side of him.
And he did, for what felt like an incredibly short time despite what his body told him. While locked in his own mind, Aten had no knowledge of what was going on the outside; all he knew was the beast was running. For how long, he did not know; time didn't exist within his mind. When he came back, many things hit him at once. The chill in the nighttime breeze... the silence in the air... the overwhelming smell of blood and death... and, when his eyes 'opened' as he returned, all he saw was a never-ending stretch of land before him, unable to tell it's color due to the night.
He thought returning to normal self would be like a gentle breeze blowing across his skin, switching places with the feral nature in a manner that he wouldn't even feel anything.
But this, no. It was painful, a rapid shift like he'd been struck by lightning, his feral nature shut back inside before something even worse happened. He couldn't describe it other than like a big cat's claws coated with ice wrapping around his heart, before being pulled away in a manner so violent that Aten felt as if his own heart had been torn from his chest with them. His legs were shaking, his body coated in a light sheen of sweat, both from exertion from the run and from the pain he'd just experienced.
At first, Aten didn't realize what happened, not until he realized what familiar presences were gone. Not only did it seem the feral nature had disappeared, but... the warmth within his mind, the presence of his raptor comrade... that was gone too. There was a small constant buzzing within the back of his mind that reminded him of the unique bond he shared with Turul. And now, for some unexplained reason, it was gone.
Turul... the feral nature...
For the first time in a long while, Aten felt alone. Much like his time as a bachelor deep within the forest following Taiga's destruction years ago. His body ached all over from such a rapid shift along with the feeling of it being torn from his body. His mind was now quiet too, the absence of the buzzing indicating Turul's presence causing an uncomfortable silence.
What in the world had just happened? Aten didn't understand, and that made him angry too. His anger stemmed from the fear now starting to enter his heart too... he didn't like the feeling of being alone anymore, not like this. He knew he had somewhere to go back to, a home, loved ones... but this loneliness, having something taken away in the blink of an eye...
He suddenly thought more of his family. They could be taken away in much the same manner, and he feared it more than anything. More than being alone? Hard to say. Losing his family would lead to that, but he couldn't allow it. He wouldn't!
A harsh wind blew against Aten's coat, the stallion's body shivering lightly now that he didn't have the additional warmth of the flame inside him. It wasn't unbearable, but it would be akin to a normal horse having it's winter coat and then suddenly being stripped bare in the middle of an autumn night. Uncomfortable, but not life threatening.
Aten lifted a hoof and turned his head to shield his eyes from any debris that may be coming his way. When it started to die down a bit, the stallion opened his eyes, stunned by what he saw in front of him now that he was facing the other direction.
Two rocks trying to rival the height of the redwoods in his home stretched to the sky, their colors drastically different even in the limited light of the stars. One was a deep obsidian black that rivaled the night, the other a dazzling deep green that reminded Aten of the leaves that covered the year-round trees that dotted Beqanna's lands. He did not understand why they were here, for he'd been to the Plains - a very limited number of times, sure - and had never seen them before.
Still, he did not sense anything negative about them. He took a couple of steps closer to investigate, now noticing the intricate details that covered each stone. The green one was littered with lines that resembled the shapes of wings, like the ones Pteron had, as well as other designs, like those of the bats that Aten sometimes saw flying among the redwoods late at night. The black one's lines were more straight, not as intricate like the delicate feather patterns of the wings. Some were curved and slender, but unmistakable. If Aten had to guess, he would say they resembled horns like he'd seen on the foreheads of some of Beqanna's equids.
Confusion cluttered the stallion's mind. What exactly was going on here? None of this made sense, but then, in a magic land like this, what really did? The stallion's own thoughts began to die down as the whispers on the wind returned, but they were quiet, gentle, encouraging. They were inside his mind now, not aggressive as before. What were they trying to say to him? The entire time he listened, he couldn't take his eyes off those stones.
The voices got louder the more he focused on the stones of black and green, and slowly, he began to piece it together. They were encouraging... but it was his choice to make. He had no idea what getting near one of those stones would lead to, but he would find out. He was tempted to go near the one of jade green color, yet something in his heart pulled him the other way. Wings...
They fondly reminded him of the raptor. If that stone did anything along the lines of what he was thinking, he could not do it. Because one of Aten's flaws early in life, was the inability to ask assistance of others. And now that he had learned how, and gained a new friend... he'd learned an important lesson, one that any kingdom leader had to know.
How to ask for help, one's own pride be damned.
And so Aten made a move toward the black stone, hesitating for a moment, before he reached out and touched it at the base with his hoof. The stone didn't do anything extremely magical, but the lines that made up the horn patterns seemed to almost glow a little before the golden stallion felt a tingling sensation on his forehead. The skin began to stretch in a slightly uncomfortable manner, the stallion wincing, before it parted like the ocean against a rock.
Due to his line of vision and not being able to see directly in front of him, Aten was unable to see exactly how the new feature on his skin looked. But he could feel it there, something new, a tad bit heavy since he wasn't used to it, but at the same time, light as the breeze. He moved his head a few times to test it out, the new object firmly rooted to his skull.
The horn was straight and tough like the redwoods, but thin and easy to maneuver. Aten could not see the color, but the base of it matched his coat. The dark golden color bled into a light champagne as it got closer to the tip before finally turning a snowy white. The horn also bled a dark golden color down onto his skin where it met his forehead, forming intricate patterns like branches with small leaves like a reminder of where he came from.
Aten lowered his head, stretching one of his front legs out and turning to poke his limb with the new addition to his skin. He felt the tip rub against the tender muscles of his lower leg, and drew it back in the fear that he might cut his own skin by accident. The stallion's eyes went up as if he could see the horn that way, but was still unable to.
Eventually, he turned back to the black stone, the green one also within his line of view. His mind too muddled from what happened earlier, his body still aching, the now with this new feature to deal with, the only thing that came from the stunned stallion's lips were three simple words.
"What... the hell?"
OOC: Aten hails from Taiga, hence his continued reference to the redwoods. He currently lost his traits of companion animal and dragon mimicry. He chose the black stone for a single horn.
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Aislyn - 01-01-2020
<center><div style="width:400px; padding:30px;font-family:times;font-size:12px;line-height:14px;background:#FFFFFF;color:#000000;text-align:justify"><center><i> “She set fire to all the things that held her back,
and from the ashes she stepped into who she always was.”</center></I>
She is not asleep when the strange sensation settles over her.
Aislyn rarely slept it seemed like, but in the night it was especially difficult. There had always been something exciting in seeing what stirred in the dark, in observing those that only came out when the world was cloaked in shadow. The dark had a way of revealing far more than the light ever did, and the girl with the insatiable curiosity and thirst for adventure had been quick to notice this.
But it’s why the feeling is especially peculiar, when the ache slams into the marrow of her bones, when she sucks in a sharp breath at what felt like a blow to her shoulder. She stops in the middle of the vale she had been moving through, confused but intrigued all at once. She stands, entirely still save for the way the night breeze lifts at her black mane, and the slow blink of her vibrantly pink eyes as she searches for a seemingly invisible foe.
It comes again, then, stinging across her skin, and this time anger flushes hot and red beneath her skin, her ears buried in the tangles of her mane. She spins, ready to face whatever it was that had attacked her, jaw clenched and muscles coiled taut. But the meadowlands disappear, and instead it is the war-torn plains that lay spread out before her. There is still the metallic tang of blood in the air, and she can feel the way adrenaline begins to spike in her veins. Aislyn was young, and while she could not be considered a seasoned warrior, she was not entirely stupid. She recognized a battlefield when she saw one, and while she didn’t understand why she was brought her, she at least had an inkling of what was about to take place.
This would not be the stone castles and glimmering city of Atlantis like her last adventure, and instead of recoiling in fear, there was only an eagerness blooming in her chest.
She turns again, and this time she sees the large stone pillars.
She is sure that someday her brashness would get her into trouble, but today she is still young and brazen, and so she does not stop to consider what these stones could be. The idea of <i>danger</i> does not cross her mind, and she steps to the black one first, the one decorated with horns. She tilts her head, regarding it curiously, before brushing her muzzle against the surface of it, feeling the thin lines of the engravings.
Before she can investigate the second one there is a blinding white pain the explodes behind her eyes, and she cries out as she stumbles away from the structure. Skin and bone break as elk antlers erupt from her skull, with large tines and a sudden heaviness that makes her head feel too weighted to hold upright.
She stands, panting and trembling with blood trickling down the side of her face, before looking back at the pillar with a newfound suspicion. Hesitantly, she lifts her head, the pain still throbbing but the weight no longer as awkward. She looks again out to the expanse of the plains, and for the first time a nervous anticipation floods her veins.
<div align=right><font color=B6385F><b>aislyn.</b></font></div></center>
Aislyn has no land affiliation right now.
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Oriash - 01-02-2020
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Alex+Brush|Poiret+One" rel="stylesheet"><style type="text/css">.oriash_loweredhorns_background{position:relative;z-index:1;width:550px;background:#112331;padding: 15px;border-radius: 50px;box-shadow: 0 0 10px #000;border:1px solid #000;}.oriash_loweredhorns_container{position:relative;z-index:2;width:550px;background:#040309;font:12px 'Times New Roman', serif;border-radius: 50px;box-shadow: 0 0 10px #000;border:1px solid #000;}.oriash_loweredhorns_container p{margin:0;}.oriash_loweredhorns_gradient {position: absolute;z-index: 5;top: 270px;width: 550px;height: 100px;background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(11,27,27,0) 0%, rgba(4,3,9,1) 100%);background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(11,27,27,0) 0%,rgba(4,3,9,1) 100%);background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(11,27,27,0) 0%,rgba(4,3,9,1) 100%);filter: progid
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#000b1b1b', endColorstr='#040309',GradientType=0 );}.oriash_loweredhorns_message {position: relative;z-index: 10;width: 450px;top: 10px;text-align: justify;padding: 20;color: #415971;border-top: 2px solid #112331;}.oriash_loweredhorns_quote {position: relative;z-index: 10;color: rgba(217, 231, 242, 0.6);font: 12px 'Poiret One', sans-serif;letter-spacing: 2px;text-align: center;padding-top: 20px;padding-bottom: 20px;}.oriash_loweredhorns_name {position: absolute;top: 325px;z-index: 15;right: 175px;bottom: 60px;color: #112331;text-shadow: 0 0 5px #C1C2C4;font: 70px 'Alex Brush', cursive;letter-spacing: 2px;}</style><center><div class="oriash_loweredhorns_background"><div class="oriash_loweredhorns_container"><img style="width:550px;border-radius: 50px 50px 0 0;" src="https://k.nickpic.host/bztFVD.jpg"><div class="oriash_loweredhorns_gradient"></div><p class="oriash_loweredhorns_name">Oriash</p><div class="oriash_loweredhorns_message"><p class="oriash_loweredhorns_quote" style="margin-top:-10px;">they promised that dreams can come true</p><p>The magical summons of Beqanna never come to her (or perhaps, she is never listening to them). What need does she have of more magic? The allure is tempting, of course (she would be a liar to say it is not, for magic is always tempting, such is the nature of it after all), and yet she cannot quite be sure reality would not unravel entirely beneath the weight of more power. Magic is something real but unreal, and Ori already toes that line. Yet tonight, the summon finds her.
It is a quiet thing at first, an old ache that fades quickly, a metallic taste in her mouth, a restlessness that kept her from sleep. It is the sort of tug she is likely to ignore, but then it comes again, sharp and stinging like a knife. For the first time, she finds herself answering, though perhaps she was never going to be given the choice.
Perhaps she ought to spare a moment to wonder why the magic finds her now, but Ori has never been quite so introspective. She is an invisible, lost thing, drifting and tossed like wood on the waves of a storm. Perhaps this is the start of something new, or perhaps the call finds her because she is finally determined to become something. She is not yet someone, but she is something. She is a dream and illusion, she is a tangle of nightmares, and she could be a force. Could, but would she?
There is no time for quiet reflection, even if she were to spare it a thought, not tonight. She is still lying on the ground, legs tucked beneath her, when the magic takes hold. She blinks, and the landscape is no longer that of Loess but something soiled and stained. The taste of blood coats the back of her throat, the ground around her a deep red. Is soil ever that color naturally? She doesn’t know, but it seems <i>wrong</i>. Scrambling to her feet, Ori nearly stumbles, finally realizing her balance is wrong. Her wings. There is nothing there but the phantom itch of them. Her head too, light and almost weightless without the antlers that usually weigh her down.
She misses one instantly, but not the other.
It is a heartbeat later she realizes the implication. Reaching for her illusions, she does not find them. The world around her stays as it is, dark and deadly. Her heart skips a few beats, dancing the sound of panic in her chest. She is in Beqanna, she knows, but even without her power she cannot determine how real this is. Yet the sting of the knife is not so easily forgotten, and it <i>feels</i> real. Maybe that is all that matters, the feeling of a thing. If it feels real, perhaps that is real enough. The hollow feeling within her at the loss of her illusions is certainly real. It is a pit, one she never knew could exist within her.
She takes a breath, looks up.
What she is supposed to do in this moment, what path forward has been thrust upon her without choice? Two monoliths stand before her, lit only by the dim light of the stars above. Still, she can see the difference in their color, one black as the shadows around her, another almost black but shimmering with something more verdant. Their purpose is clear, carved into them in more variety than she can count.
<i>Pick,</i> they seems to say, though there is no magical voice. She simply knows what she is to do, and the choice is easy. She has had both, and she only misses one. One is heavy; one is the shadow of her mother looming large above her, unshakable and unescapable. The other is freedom; the other is Solace and her love, buoying and strong. Ori doesn’t hesitate, but makes her way to the jade monolith with a strange confidence she cannot explain. This choice, at least, she is certain of, for she knows her own heart even if she does not know her own mind.
When her wings reappear with a flicker of pain, but they seem to simply find a home where they have always been. Unfurling them, the weight and feel is familiar, comforting. Experimentally, she flaps them a few times, making no attempt to leave the ground but simply testing to ensure they are <i>hers</i>, that there are no tricks or some new tick to learn. Nothing presents itself, and she finds herself grateful for the fact she’d never had strange or impressive wings to begin with. Just feathers and freedom.
Freedom. This is not freedom, this quest that has been thrust upon her. But maybe, just maybe, it is a path to it.
</p></div><p class="oriash_loweredhorns_quote">but they forgot that nightmares are dreams too.</p></div></div></center>
Land affiliation: Loess
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Cyprin - 01-02-2020
<center><img src="https://www.darkbeautymag.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Jiamin-Zhu-jajasgarden-ig-tb-tw-same-Michelle-Green-ig-michelle.green_.87-h-Matt-Lawrence-ig-makahmatt-mua-Liz-Kiss-ig-lizkiss02-jwl-crw-Namiko-Abloom-namikoabloom-ig-same-Amphitrite.jpg" width=600 style="border-top-left-radius:50%;border-top-right-radius:50%"><center><link href='http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Marcellus+SC' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'><table width="600" bgcolor="46535B" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"><tr><td><center><table width="500" bgcolor="46535B" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tr><td><center><font size="1" color="dbd2b4" style="letter-spacing:3px;line-height:14pt;font-family: 'Marcellus SC', serif;">An old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind
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<table width="500" bgcolor="6D9394" style="border-color: 3e3f68; border-width: 1px; border-style: solid;" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="8"><tr><td><div align="justify"><font face="times new roman" size="2" color="384556">
It was a restful slumber from which Cyprin is awakened. Her dreams are peaceful and brim with vibrant flowers like those that surround her in the Pampas. In her thoughts, she is running alongside her twin as their laughter fills the open fields with their exuberant joy.
Her body, the true one that rests in the Brilliant Pampas, is quiet and nearly motionless aside from the steady breaths that rise and fall. In her sleep, Cyprin is beautifully delicate, but a gasp of air disrupts the serenity of the meadow. Both in her dreams, running alongside Bronsonn and in the Brilliant Pampas, there is a swirl of billowing wind that whips her aside. It coldly smacks across her face, and she stirs abruptly to life. Cyprin’s legs suddenly scramble and her head jerks up from the patch of grass she rested her chin.
The surprise flashes across her eyes in a kaleidoscope of colors as she immediately rises to her feet.
Where are the flowers, she almost asks, but there is no one near enough to hear. Suddenly, Cyprin is alone. The rolling hills have receded and the lush grass has been replaced by red clay and dirt. There’s no sense hiding the confusion that reads plainly on her face as she quietly observes the barren world around her. It extends far to the horizon, this barren wasteland, and she whimpers anxiously at first before gripping onto herself and reminding herself who she is.
Muted reassurances swiftly reel across her thoughts while she blinks to determine and analyze her predicament. When she pivots, turning around, she sees the monoliths towering above her. A slow step drags her forward, then another, until she is in the shadow of the black stone. Cyprin is unaware that her abilities are suddenly gone, that even as she scrutinizes the monolith, her eyes are normal and matching the color of her gunmetal skin.
No animation. No dragon eyes.
<i>”This one,”</i> she doesn’t know why she speaks. Perhaps, it is to fill the eerie silence or to try disrupting it. The second that the words pass her lips, however, there is a flash of pain. A blinding white blots out her vision as her head pounds unbearably. Cyprin reels back and screams, nearly falling to her knees from the pain.
Within minutes, it becomes a dull ache, then nothing at all.
She blinks hesitantly and tries turning her head only to be unbalance and stumble sideways. <i>”Wh—what?”</i> She cannot look up at the markhor horns sprouting from her skull, but she can see it in her shadow when she looks down fearfully. Panic nearly overtakes her, but a long breath drawn into her lungs keeps it at bay. <i>”Okay… I’m here, and I have horns now… Ooookay.”</i> A weighted breath hisses through her teeth and a shudder runs down the length of her spine, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she just waits and wonders what she has fallen into.
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<center><font size="2" color="dbd2b4" style="letter-spacing:8px;line-height:10pt;font-family: 'Marcellus SC', serif;">Cyprin
<font size="1" color="dbd2b4" style="letter-spacing:3px;line-height:14pt;font-family: 'Marcellus SC', serif;">lior and nayl</font></center></td></tr></table></center></center>
<center><font face="times" size="1" color="black" style="letter-spacing:3px;line-height:9pt">picture by Jiamin Zhu on pinterest
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brilliant pampas/loess
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Brazen - 01-03-2020
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Allan|Playfair+Display|Rosario" rel="stylesheet"><link href="fonturl" rel="stylesheet"><style>#brazen{width:600px;border:1px solid #d8d4d3;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #898584;background:url('https://i.postimg.cc/rF53fRcX/BrazenBG.jpg');background-size:600px;position:relative;}#brazenname{margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:0px;z-index:2;position:relative;font-family: 'Playfair Display', serif;font-size:70px;text-transform:uppercase;color:#394956;}#brazenwrapper{position:relative;z-index:0;width:500px;background:#d8d4d3;border:1px solid #312c32;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #312c32 inset;margin-top:-100px;margin-bottom:0px;padding-bottom:1px;padding-top:90px;opacity:0.8;}#brazentext{width:450px;color:#45403a;font-size:14px;font-family: 'Rosario', sans-serif;}#brazenpic{position:relative;z-index:1;margin-top:0px;}#brazenquote{color:#394956;font-size:18px;font-family: 'Allan', cursive;line-height:16px;}hr.brazenname{width:100px;background:#394956;height:2px;border:0;}</style><center><div id="brazen"><div id="brazenpic"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/x1CGcB6x/Brazen.png" width="600px"/></div><div id="brazenwrapper"><p id="brazenquote">cold in the violence after the war<br/>hope is a fire to keep us warm</p><p id="brazentext" align="justify">She is used to pain. It has become an old and constant companion, so closely tied into the fibers of her existence that it barely registers anymore. Bone rupturing skin, the warm trickle and tangy scent of blood, all as much a part of her as the blue of her eyes and the white and rust hue of her skin.
Does Brazen even truly exist without those things?
As it turns out, she does. But that is not where this tale begins. No, that would be on the distant cliffs of Nerine, masked features quiet as she stares absently out into the waves. She had spent hours pacing the decaying edges as she tried in vain to catch her mother’s attention. But she had disappeared. And Brazen, so vastly different from the woman who had birthed her, hadn’t the means or knowhow to determine what had happened.
She knows only that she must do <i>something</i>. What that something is though, she hadn’t figured out yet.
When the summons comes, a subtle ache upon the wind, she barely notices at first. As a woman so accustomed to pain, the faint discomfort is barely more than a tickle. If this is truly a nightmare, then she must already live her life in hell.
When it comes again, a phantom slice of pain across bloodied skin, she does notice. Frowning, she glances behind her, faintly confused until, between one blink and the next, she finds herself standing upon the dessicated and bloodstained soil of the Plains. Her confusion swells as she straightens abruptly, eyes sharpening as she warily surveys the land around her. Her pulse hums in renewed vigor as every instinct she has prickles, the old scents of blood and battle warning her of waiting dangers.
It is almost habit now, for her skin to stiffen in response to the imposing sense of threat. Except that… it does not. In fact, as she rolls her shoulders to loosen the crawling of her spine, she becomes acutely aware of the distinct <i>lack</i> of pain her body is experiencing. For the first time in a very long time, bone is not puncturing her skin or causing blood to trickle freely. Her entire body feels light, almost weightless. Each tentative step is taken with a sense of buoyancy she hadn’t known she could feel.
Despite the wonder that accompanies such a freeing sensation, she cannot ignore the itch along her spine that tells her this is not something to revel in. The niggling thread of doubt and common sense that almost screams at her that the forces that had brought her here had not taken her in kindness.
After all, one does not come to a land demolished by war expecting peace.
Peering ahead, she eyes the two monoliths (the only structures on this desolate battlefield) with a healthy distrust. But the longer she stares, the more clear it becomes. There is a choice to be made here.
Slowly, she closes the distance, eyes shifting between the two stones, curiosity warring with her better sense. As she draws nearer however, details begin to emerge. Fine lines that coalesce into carvings. Shapes she recognizes. Arches that form the many different shapes of wings, loops and swirls that arrange themselves into a seemingly endless variety of horns.
Almost hesitantly, she reaches out, lightly touching the black monolith. The one decorated in so many styles of horn. Though she had always found wings beautiful, she had never been a creature of air. No, she had been born a thing of war, her body meant to protect and shield. And those carvings spoke to her in a way the ones of wings could not. Bones and horns are not so very different, after all.
As though an understanding has been reached, she suddenly feels a heavy weight dragging her head downwards. With a snort, she steps back abruptly, head ducking as she shakes it. As though that would somehow rid herself of this new accouterment. But she can see the dark curl of new horns arching out and up before tapering to a dangerous point. Clear evidence of a strange new ability.
Somehow her choice had become reality. Flicking her tail, she once more peers warily around her, wondering at what cost these new horns had come.</p><hr class="brazenname" align="left" style="margin-bottom:-50px;margin-top:50px;margin-left:26px"><p id="brazenname">Brazen</p><hr class="brazenname" align="right" style="margin-top:-50px;margin-bottom:50px;margin-right:26px"></div></div></center>
Brazen is tied to Nerine. She chose the black stone and got cape buffalo horns.
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Ripley - 01-03-2020
<center><table bgcolor=262626 style="border-color:#262626; border-width: 2px; border-style: solid;" cellspacing=10 cellpadding=10 width=620><tr><td><center><font color=e6e6e6 face=times style=font-size:9pt;line-height:8pt;letter-spacing:2pt;>here comes a candle to light you to bed
here comes a chopper to chop off your head</font></center><p align=justify><font color=bfbfbf face="times new roman" style="font-size: 10pt">note before we start: it's just Ripley not Nostromo
----
The monster is with its master when it is taken. The darkness of a new moon, of the stars shrouded in darkness, has always been its favourite time to hunt. Cunning black eyes see through the shadows with ease. A creature born to hunt, the night offers stealth when strength and speed are not necessarily required.
Something is on the air tonight and it makes the monster restless, eager to feed. It can feel the call, feel it heighten its already feral senses. Although cunning, there is no wisdom in the mind of this monster - no ability to question what it might be that is causing this stir. It can only react to what is happening, to the second call that is sharper. A snarl escapes the monster and it looks to its master to see what Anaxarete thinks of what is happening - if it can be let off the leash to hunt whatever is causing this reaction down.
But when the monster blinks, Anaxarete is gone.
When it blinks, it is no longer a monster - it is a mare. A pale, dappled grey mare with nostrils that flare at the scent of blood and soft, doe-brown eyes that take in the sight of the red plains before her. <i>She</i>, Ripley, stumbles when she takes a step. She has grown so used to her prehensile tail providing balance, to the crown of armour on her head, to the weight of those pieces along her sides and back. She does not need to look to know she is only flesh and bone now.
But she looks anyway. Sees the near snow-white tail that flicks behind her. It has never seen dirt, after all. Never been exposed to the elements. Nor has the matching mane which tickles her skin.
She’s focusing on these strange sensations, things she has not felt since she was two years old, because her mind has not <i>thought</i> in so long that it cannot grasp what has just happened. But her mind is a youthful one and unpraticed, and though it tries to shelter itself it cannot stem the wave that is memories of her life as a monster as it crashes in and cripples her with its weight - the dozens of horses she murdered while next to her daughter in the Pit, the violence of creating more of her kind, the near-normal foals she birthed and murdered or attempted to murder because they were <i>not</i> monsters.
Her heart breaks for every drop of blood she spilt, a cry of agony escaping her as she remembers those foals - her <i>babies</i> as they cried out in terror and pain when they should have been loved and kept safe.
Ripley has been trapped in a nightmare for the better part of a century and now she has awakened, here on the Plains. The only thing that stops her memories from drowning her is one simple wish - she wants her mom. She wants Ryatah with her now - wanting desperately to feel the soft comforting touch of her mom, to hear that it is going to be okay.
“Mom.” The word croaks out, the first word she has spoken in more years that she can count.
She longs for the presence of the white mare in a way she has not felt since she was a filly. Since before her mind turned feral. Back when she was adventurous and strayed, but always able to return home to a silly dad and a caring mom.
For now, however, she is alone. Her mom is not magically with her - she can’t even see anyone else through the tears that are forming in her eyes, just two large pillars of stone. One black and one green. She moves, each step becoming a little easier as her body rediscovers this new shape.
She drifts towards the black stone as her body shakes with sobs. The sharp points of the horns and inky blackness remind her of the monster she was but now, feeling the pain that she does, a part of her cannot help but crave losing herself in that mindless wild creature once more. <i>Take these thoughts, take these memories</i> she cries to it as she approaches.
The stone is as uncaring as the silent world of the Plains she has found herself in.
Ripley feels a change, but it is not a total change. It is, in comparison to what she had been, a very small one - her head feels as though it is splitting in two but she almost does not even notice the pain (what’s physical pain compared to the emotional turmoil storming within her?). She feels the weight of the change though and feels comforted.
She may not have her crown back but there are curving rams horns and the presence of <i>something</i> on her skull is so familiar that it helps settle her mind, helps her breathing become less ragged. It’s enough to enable her to look around where she is, to try to figure out what is going to happen next.
<p align=right><font color=e6e6e6 style=font-size:10pt;line-height:8pt;letter-spacing:7pt;>ripley <s>& nostromo</s></font>
<font face="times" size="1" color="e6e6e6" style="letter-spacing:1px;line-height:14pt">XXVIII<font color=262626>-----</font></font></center></p></font></tr></td></table></center>
Ripley is from Pangea!
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - atrox - 01-03-2020
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Roboto+Condensed:400,700' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .atrox_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #fefefe; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .atrox_container p { margin: 0; } .atrox_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .atrox_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; margin-top: 0px; } .atrox_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #000; padding: 35px; } .atrox_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; color: #fff; font: 10px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; line-height: 0.8; bottom: 330px; right: 115px; letter-spacing: 1px; } .atrox_quote { font: 10px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: center; color: #000; padding-top: 40px; letter-spacing: 1px; }</style> <center> <div class="atrox_container"> <div class="atrox_text"> <p class="atrox_quote">hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive</p> <p class="atrox_message"> Atrox was getting sick of being taken places against his will, whether conscious or not.
He hears that strange call, that thrill beneath his skin, and he breathes it in deep—drawing the air down into his lungs. Then before he can make up his mind, or even begin to decipher the nature of the call, he feels himself shimmer in place. He curses beneath his breath before he even opens his eyes because he knows, he knows that he has once again found himself at the mercy of the faeries, of Beqanna herself.
The curse becomes a snarl when he finally does open his eyes and realizes where he has landed.
The Plains.
For all of the wars that has he fought, all of the raids he has led, he has not spent much time here. He never participated in the Alliance and never had a reason to spill blood here, but the doesn’t stop him from knowing that which drenches the earth. He knows this land because he is made of it. The scream of the dying. The guttural cries of the vanquished. It’s as much a part of him as the pine forests once had been.
Yet—
And yet.
The kinship that he feels with the blood-soaked earth does not override his fury at being dropped here. The wind whips around him, practically through him as it tangles his heavy mane even further, and it is then that he realizes that he has been stripped clean. He doesn’t care that he can no longer pull on the threads of the afterlife, yanking in souls on a whim, but to lose the panther? That feels unthinkable. That leaves him feeling emptier than when he had first opened his eyes to find himself without a pulse.
His yellow gaze flicks forward, his instincts going on high alert as everything clicks into place. He sees the large stone that rises before him. Furious he stalks forward to inspect them further, vision obscured by the red dust and clay that rise around them. When he gets close enough, he sees them for what they are—the way they are covered with wings and horns and there is a sudden understanding, a stone in his chest.
A fire in his belly.
Wings had their place, he knew. He had seen plenty use them to their advantage and were perhaps the wiser of the choices, but they were largely a defensive weapon. Atrox had never been defensive. He was a brutish fighter, a brawler, and he knows instantly that they will not be his weapon of choice. His gaze flicks to the darker stone and he steps forward, taking a deep breath before reaching out and touching it.
It is much like when the panther first settled into him, although this feels much less natural. This was like borrowing a coat and not slipping into a second skin and he grunts as he feels the weight settle onto the crown of his head. So be it, he thinks, taking a step back and straightening. He cannot see them, but he knows that the strange feeling is due to the wicked horns that now curve from both sides of his head, starting as nearly ivory where they are planted and deepening at the vicious edge into a depthless onyx.
He settles his weight, snorts, and continues to look around.
Something was coming.
He was ready. </p> </div> <div class="atrox_name">ATROX | <b>THE PANTHER KING</b></div> <img class="atrox_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/VNR4hxCt/atrox.png"> </div> </center>
Atrox is from Hyaline. He acquired Spanish bull horns.
RE: then why'd it feel so good? - Anaxarete - 01-04-2020
<center><img src="https://orig00.deviantart.net/8700/f/2018/016/6/0/ana3_by_the_renegade-dc07g0m.png"><table bgcolor=050301 style="border-color: black; border-width: 0px; border-style: solid; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: -145px" cellspacing=30 cellpadding=30 width=600><tr><td><p align=justify><font face=times new roman color=453c29><font style=font-size:9pt;line-height:12pt;letter-spacing:1px><font style=letter-spacing:3px><center><Font color=7d6c4b><i>YOU CAN HEAR WHEN THE HEART STOPS.</i></font></font> </center><p align=justify>
She had not been asleep.
No, the shadowmare does not rest in the darkest hours of the night. She had been with her creatures - letting them feed, watching them hunt prey that cowered in the dark. She knows that the pair are more than capable of hunting without her presence - she is only along for her own enjoyment. Watching them hunt is a thing of beauty, especially on a night such as this. Cold. Dark. Quiet.
The shadowspinner could feel the disturbance in the shadows. It was more than enough to draw her attention from the hunt - just the peculiarity of the thing. Whispers that were not her own.
Undaunted, she turns towards the whispering - the ripple in the darkness. And then it is gone.
And so is she.
She knows this place - this familiar red earth. She stood here now just as she had when she had entered the Alliance in the name of the Chamber. Stripped down, free of any traits of abilities. She had fought her way to the top unaided by traits or by magic. She had imbued these lands with her own blood and sweat and for her efforts was imbued with something greater in return. These were the plains that had brought about her ascension - that had gifted her with the mastery of shadows and magic.
So no, the magician did not mourn the loss of her magic. She relished in the feeling of being bare - of being <i>free</i>. It made her feel young - standing bare upon this earth. For she had been young once, all those years ago. The shadowmare sucked in a greedy breath - letting the familiar scent of the Plains settle into her bones. She exhaled slowly
She wonders why she had been called back to this place. She wonders for the briefest moments if she’d fallen through time. Had she been called back to the past? Her gaze carefully sweeps her surroundings - settling upon the stone monoliths.
The obelisks had been absent during her campaign here so long ago. No. This was not the past at all. This was all happening in the present. And curiosity stoked the embers deep within her belly. Flames danced behind her icy gaze - ready to consume the shadowmare with bloodlust and rage. That was not a door she was going to open. Not yet, at least.
Patience had taken her decades to master, but she <i>had</i> mastered it.
Eventually.
She studies the monoliths carefully - one marked with horns, the other with wings. She stands before them for a moment - considering the choice that has been put before her.
Horns had always intrigued the shadowmare, though she had never fashioned herself a set with her magic. She didn’t particularly find them to be helpful in battle. For one, she never liked to lead with her head or neck. Such was a recipe for disaster. Anaxarete had never been a creature of brute strength. No. She used her agility and endurance to her advantage. The idea of fighting in close quarters with another while deliberately putting her head in jeopardy was not something she found particularly appealing. Her size and strength wouldn’t make them advantageous either.
Wings, however...wings she was familiar with. She had often created wings for herself - using them to wing her way into battle or simply into the empty skies. They would play more to her advantage - making her more maneuverable, allowing her to keep more distance between herself and her enemies, and allowing her more angles of attack. They could be used to faint, to screen, and could easily be sacrificed in order to protect more vulnerable areas like a shield of flesh itself. Fragile yes, but useful.
With that, her decision is made.
Wings erupt from her shoulders, and the shadowmare doesn't flinch as the flesh bends into the shape of bat wings. Delicate, but strong, with a single claw upon them and large enough to carry her safely into the skies. She tucks them against her sides - reorienting herself with the weight of the appendages she occasionally fashioned for herself.
She turns then - her cold gaze scanning the expanse before her. However, the shadowmare is content to wait for what comes next.
For now, at least.
It had been too long since she faced such a challenge.
And she was hungry for it.
<center><font style=letter-spacing:3px><Font color=7d6c4b>- A N A X A R E T E -
been there, done that</font></font></table><a href="http://the-renegade.deviantart.com">image credit</a> </center></center>
Ana is loyal to Pangea and has some big ole flying fox (bat) wings.